


Need(les)

by rickandmortysincave



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: C137cest, Consensual Underage Sex, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Eventual Smut, Heavy Angst, Incest, M/M, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Smut, Triggers, Underage Drug Use, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2018-09-24 17:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 66,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9774080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rickandmortysincave/pseuds/rickandmortysincave
Summary: Rick returns from prison only to discover that Morty has developed a serious drug problem. Summer urges him to help, but Morty's harbored feelings over Rick's abandonment aren't making it easy for either of them.





	1. Bloodstream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick returns from prison. Summer tries to allude to Morty's drug problem, but decides it's best for Rick to see it firsthand.

The house is quiet.  
Unbeknownst to Rick, whether it be day or night, the house is always this quiet. At least, it has been since he left.  
He creeps quietly with each step, fighting the urge to simply burst into Morty's room like he used to. It wouldn't do much good in the way of convincing Morty that it's really him, and not some collective image of him that his mind has conjured up only to sate his desire to see his grandfather again. No, he needs to level the with the kid. Startling him awake isn't going to make him see reason.  
He can't deny the excitement to finally see Morty, though. As his hand fumbles for the doorknob in the dark, he can practically feel the smile widening on his face, can feel himself visually light up with the idea of being back with his grandson, back with his family. He takes a deep breath before he turns the knob, pushes the door open, flips on the oh-so-familiar light switch.  
But Morty isn't there.  
Rick's brow quirks up in confusion. It's late, way later than Morty would allow himself to stay up if he had his way, and as far as Rick is concerned, without him around, he does.  
The room looks the same, the blankets tightly tucked against the mattress, the shelves stacked neatly with knickknacks, a few token pieces of clothing surrounding the overflowing hamper. Everything about it screams Morty, and Rick takes in the familiar feel of it, briefly remembering the countless nights he had stumbled into this very room and forced Morty to tag along on some adventure or another. It's the first time since he's stepped into the house that he truly feels home.  
But it's not the same without the kid himself.  
So Rick instead finds himself at Summer's door in the middle of the night, though he hadn't planned on announcing his presence to the rest of the family until the morning. Leave it to Morty to wreck his plans before he can even put them into action.  
He knocks, loud enough for Summer to hear if she's sleeping, which she most likely is. The door opens following a string of grumbled profanities and complaints, and the sound of it sends another smile across Rick's face. Unfortunately, he can't say the same for Summer.  
She looks, well, tired, and not the 'just got woken up at 3 am' tired, but the 'I haven't slept for three weeks because I have insomnia' tired. The bags under her eyes are dark and puffy, large enough to make her eyes look like they've sunken back farther into her skull, and shit, maybe they have. Her frame, while always slender, is now rearing on borderline emaciated. Even her hair has lost some of it's luster, looking dull and faded in the moonlight that pours from her bedroom window.  
"Shit, Summer, you look like hell."  
"Grandpa Rick?" Summer gasps, her hands bracing on the doorframe like she can't support her weight on her own. "I-Is it really you?"  
"Yeah Summer, in the flesh and blood, what-what a surprise that th-the genius broke out of intergalactic space prison."  
Summer's eyes narrow. "Yeah? How do I know you're not lying? You could be another Rick from some other dimension, right?"  
Rick sighs and shoves his hand into his pocket, the sound of metal hitting metal echoing in the hallway as he roots around. After a few seconds he withdraws a broken pair of handcuffs and drops them into Summer's hands, causing her to jump in surprise.  
"Ch-Check the ID on the side of-of those babies. That's right, a-a-a pair of handcuffs made just for old Sanchez. You wanna go to the feds and get the ID on those checked, Summer? Wanna-Wanna lead them right back here so they can-can cart my ass back to prison? Or do you wanna shut your face and be glad that I'm home?"  
"Okay, Grandpa Rick, Jesus. You don't have to be such a hard ass," she grumbles. "I'm just trying to be safe."  
"Where's Morty, Summer? H-He didn't like, die or anything while I was gone, right? Cause if he didn't, I-I win a bet, Summer. Got some good money riding on that kid still kicking."  
"You were betting on Morty's life?"  
"Th-That's not important, Summer. Where's Morty?" Rick asks again, clearly becoming impatient.  
Summer snorts. "Hell if I know. Out, probably."  
"Out? Wh-Wh-What the fuck does 'out' mean? It's--" He pauses to shove up the sleeve of his coat so he can check the time. "--three twenty-seven in the morning. Where the-the fuck could he possibly be?"  
Summer rolls her eyes, stifles a yawn. "It means he probably snuck out again to go hang out with his friends. That's kind of what he does now."  
"Bullshit, Morty never had friends," he argues. This has to be some kind of joke.  
"Listen, Grandpa, I know you and Morty were like besties or whatever, but Morty actually made a life outside of hanging out with you. You know, after you abandoned him?" Summer reminds him, her gaze cold. Of course, she's not letting on to the fact that Morty's friends aren't your typical run of the mill friends, and Morty's new life is far from what anyone would deem 'acceptable'. In fact, not even she knows the full extent of the damage. But let Rick figure it out for himself. It would only strengthen the blow to see without warning what he had done to her little brother.  
"I-I-I don't have time for a lecture right now, Summer. When will he be back?"  
"I don't know, Rick," she huffs. "In the morning? Tomorrow? Next weekend? He comes back when he wants to."  
"Wh-What the fuck do you mean he comes back when he wants to? Christ, Summer, he's fucking fourteen! Your mother is-is just letting this happen?" He interrogates, his hands shaking.  
"You're going to act all high and mighty now?" She hisses. "It's your fault he's like this." Shit.  
"Like what, Summer?" Rick is practically seething at this point. He knows it's something bad, he can feel it in his bones.  
"If you really wanna know, Rick, go have a look for yourself. I'm not going to coddle you into this," she spits, her arms crossing over her chest with finality. He can see it in her face. She's not going to budge.  
"Fine!" He cries, flinging his arms into the air as he treks downstairs, leaving Summer in the doorway. "Thanks fo-for all your help, Summer," he calls, his voice oozing with sarcasm.  
Of course, Summer's silence on the matter only confirms what Rick had feared to be true. Morty is in some sort of trouble. He just wishes he knew what kind of trouble that is.  
He feels distracted as he fumbles with the buttons on the tracker, distracted as he gets into the ship and follows the little blip on the monitor, distracted as he parks off some shoddy side street and walks up to a run down bar that's pumping out loud music from within.  
For a second, he's not even sure he has the right place. Morty is way too young to even pass for the legal age, much less smart enough to find a way in without getting caught.  
But a sinking feeling in his gut tells him that this is exactly the right place, and that Morty is somewhere inside doing something he probably shouldn't.  
He shuffles up to the tired looking bouncer, who immediately waves him in without so much as a second glance. Of course, that's probably only because Rick is clearly of age and doesn't really solidify the fact that Morty could have gotten it without being carded.  
The place is dingy and loud and there's a crowd of people on the dance floor, but a quick peek at the monitor indicates that Morty isn't in the general populace. The light blinks a little off to the right, where Rick can just barely make out a set of stairs. He shoulders past a couple of people and reads the overhead sign, which indicates that there's a set of bathrooms and a separate bar below. Couples are dotted here and there in the stairwell, mostly kissing or drinking, but it's two boys standing at the very bottom of the staircase that catch his attention. The one with black hair is taller, with lean muscle flexing underneath his shirt as he traps the other one between his arms. The shorter one giggles and leans into a sloppy kiss, and Rick spies a flash of white on his tongue as he pulls away, taking a sip from the drink in his hand to swallow the exchanged tablet. They banter a little back and forth, the shorter one letting the taller one put his hands in all sorts of places, and it isn't until his head falls to the side in response to an assault of neck kisses that the shorter one notices Rick standing at the top of the platform and drops his drink, subsequently shattering the glass beneath him and his companion. The tall one jumps back and begins to ask him what his problem is, but he's already being shoved aside, now an afterthought as the short one takes shaky steps up the stairs toward Rick, his pupils wide both from the drugs and his own sheer disbelief, and as he comes closer closer closer he finds himself reaching out to see if this body is even real, if he's not just hallucinating his inner most fantasies. He grips onto Rick's arm, his grasp weak, his fingers tinier than Rick remembers, skinnier, just like Summer's.  
"Is it...is it really you?" He wonders aloud, his eyes raking over Rick's form. It certainly seems more real than what's he imagined in the past. More solid, hard-edged.  
"M-Maybe this would be a more touching moment if I weren't utterly fucking pissed off, Morty, but yeah, it's me, and we're going home right now."  
Morty raises an eyebrow, finds himself almost laughing at the demand. Not only is he in sheer disbelief, but a part of him is filling with an emotion he can't quite pinpoint, something powerful that pumps itself into his veins like a drug, takes over.  
Ah, yes. Anger.  
"Are you fucking kidding me?" He chuckles dryly. "Y-You fucking..." He takes a second to laugh again at the pure stupidity of the situation. It feels like something out of a bad movie. "You leave...and then you come back a-and you think you have the right to get angry?" His breathing picks up as he shoves Rick away, causing him to stumble into the railing. He feels like screaming his lungs raw. "Y-You're a real piece of shit, you know that?"  
"You done?" Rick asks, crossing his arms over his chest. Painstakingly unaffected as always. Morty has never wanted to hurt someone more in his life.  
"N-N-No, Rick, I-I'm not done! Y-You don't just get to come back a-a-and tell me what to do! That-That's fucking shit and you know it," he shouts, not caring who's attention he draws. He really wants to let Rick have it. He's wanted to since the day he left.  
"Yeah, w-we're not doing this. Come on, Morty." Rick locks a death grip around Morty's arm and drags him up the staircase, ignoring his attempts to struggle. A few people eye them as they leave, but most are too drunk or too careless to raise any questions. Even the bouncer gives them a quick nod, despite the fact that Morty seems to be trying to escape. Typical for a seedy part of town, if Rick had to guess.  
Rick throws Morty into the ship like he's a ragdoll, and shit, the kid practically feels like one. At a quick glance, Rick can definitely tell he's lost weight. Not that there was a whole lot to lose in the first place.  
"Fuck you, Rick!" Morty cries as his back slams into the passenger door. He tries to land a kick to Rick's groin as he ducks into the ship, but he's too slow, or maybe Rick's too fast, because Rick catches his leg before he even comes close and drops it back down on Morty's seat, turning to buckle his seat belt as if nothing had happened at all. Morty grimaces.  
"Buckle your seat belt," Rick commands.  
"Go to hell."  
Rick breathes out through his nose and shuts his eyes. Counts backwards from ten.  
"I'm not going to ask again."  
"Y-You don't have to, because I'm not going to buckle the-the fucking seat belt." Morty grabs the door handle against his back and pulls, but the result is only a series of clicks as he struggles again and again to get the door open.  
"Do you think I'm stupid, Morty?" Rick leans over to grab Morty's seat belt, but is only shoved away by tiny, shaking hands.  
"Wh-What do you think you're g-gonna accomplish, huh Rick? Y-Y-You think that we're gonna go home and-and everything will go back to normal and I-I'll pretend that you n-never fucking left? You-You think I'll be like Mom and-and let you leave as many times as you want and then act like i-i-it never fucking happened?"  
"W-Well gee, Morty, what's the alternative? Just kick my feet up on the dash and let you keep being a-a fucking pill popping little floozy?"  
"Fuck you, Rick, you don't know shit! Y-You show up for-for, g-god forbid, five seconds out of your oh-so-important fucking life and y-you think you got it all figured out? You're, god--" Morty laughs again, can't believe how Rick is acting, can't believing he expected any different. "You're literally the-the fucking worst type of person."  
"Yeah, yeah, you can bitch all you want when we get home," Rick mutters, the engine roaring to life as he turns the key.  
"What makes you think I-I'll stay? I-I-Is your fucking god complex so strong that-that you think I'll stick around just be-because you've magically returned?" Morty isn't even looking at Rick at this point, can't without feeling the prick of frustrated tears in the corner of his eyes.  
"Jesus kid, you really got a-a-a mouth on you since I left."  
"A-Are you even listening to what I'm s-saying? You and I, whatever-whatever we were doing, i-it's over now. N-N-No more Rick and Morty, get it? I-I'm done hanging out with you." Morty's hands are shaking where he grips the seat. He wasn't sure he would ever have the guts to say this to Rick, thought maybe his resolve would be too weak and he would give the old man another chance, but seeing him in the flesh has helped him make up his mind. There's not an apologetic bone in Rick's body.  
Rick says nothing. Morty doesn't expect anything but. The small part of him that had hoped he would show some kind of remorse over his words died the moment he spoke them. This is the way he'll always be, and Morty certainly isn't going to let himself fall for his façade again, not after he's seen the reality of what happens when you get close to him. There's no such thing as a happy ending with Rick in it.  
Summer is waiting for them in the garage when they return, her expression worried. Morty swears he doesn't mean to take his anger out on her, but it happens anyways. "What the fuck, Summer?" He demands, slamming the passanger door behind him. "What'd y-you tell him?"  
Summer holds her hands up in a weak defense against her brother's fury. "I-I didn't say anything Morty, I swear. I just said you were out."  
"O-Oh yeah, like I'm supposed to believe that y-you didn't run crying to Rick the moment he-he showed up like you did with Mom."  
"Shit, Morty, I said I was sorry about that, all right!? How many more times do I have to say it?"  
Morty shakes his head furiously and rams his shoulder into her's on the way to the door, causing her to lose her balance. She just barely catches herself on the shelf as the door slams shut with more force than necessary.  
"You happy with yourself, Rick?" She asks, shooting him an accusatory glance.  
"What's his deal?"  
"Jesus, Grandpa, are you blind or just stupid? Just take a look at him. It isn't rocket science."  
Rick stuffs his hands in his pockets. Sure, the kid looks unhealthy, but that was to be expected. He always did have a hard time taking care of himself.  
"...You did look at him, right?"  
"O-Of course I looked at him, Summer! He looks like shit, okay? Is that what you wanted me to say?"  
"Connect the dots!" She urges, throwing her hands up. "Y-You found him at a bar, or a club, or some party, didn't you? Would it help if I said that he goes to places like that every night, or do I have to spell it out for you?"  
"Why don't you just say it, Summer?" Rick demands, tired of playing games. He has a thousand guesses, but none of them are good.  
Summer drops her head into her hands and takes a deep breath. "I'm saying his bloodstream is probably ninety percent drugs and alcohol. He has a problem, Rick."  
For a split hair of a second, Rick drops his nonchalant exterior. Summer can see it in his face. A look registers there that she's never seen before, and for a moment she can tell that he knows he's responsible. He knows that Morty is trying to escape what Rick has done.  
But then he's avoiding her gaze again, and the wall goes back up just as quick as it came down. The hardened muscles of a scowl are prominent once more, and she feels just as defeated as the day she found out about Morty herself.  
"So, what, your mom is just letting this fly?"  
"Do you honestly think we didn't try, Rick? We fought tooth and nail to get him to go to rehab, to see a therapist, to go back to school, but he won't. Every time we try he disappears for days. Hell, last time it was a week and a half. We were about to file a missing person report. We were...we thought maybe he died, and..." Summer chokes up a little. She doesn't like to think about those days, when she would wake up and check his room only to be disappointed time and time again, and the little hint of a doubt that slid it's way into her head that told her maybe he was dead. She had gotten so sick fretting over it that she stopped eating and began obsessing, driving around town at ungodly hours in search of her little brother, scouring social media, making panicked phone calls. It was only when news of her own hospitalization had reached Morty that he finally reappeared, sullen and reeling from a dangerous amount of drugs. She knew that a lot of his problems were rooted from a Rick's abandonment, but she wasn't sure she could ever forgive him for what he'd already put her through.  
"Do you...I mean, do you think you could...I don't know, get through to him?"  
Rick scoffs. "Fat chance. The kid fucking hates me."  
"Come on, Rick. You have to try. Mom, she...I don't think she can take much more. I can't take much more."  
Rick raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Your dad?"  
Summer shuffles uncomfortably where she stands, tracing imaginary patterns on her arm. "Dad left."  
"Fucking typical, leave it to Jerry to cop out when shit hits the fan."  
"Who gives a shit about my dad? Rick, you have to help to him. You're the only one he was close to before..." She waves an explanatory hand around. "All this."  
"Yeah, Summer, and look where that got him. Christ..." He murmurs, more to himself than to her. He shakes his head at the depth of the mess he's left in his wake. "Look, kid, I'll try, b-but I can't promise you anything. I-I'm the last person he wants to be around right now."  
"You're the only one who can do this, Grandpa Rick. Mom and I are at our wit's end. If you didn't come back we would've just...we would've been counting down the days until he got himself killed." Summer shivers at the thought.  
"Okay, okay, I get it. Just don't expect it to take a day," Rick grumbles. No part of this is going to be easy, especially now that Morty detests him so thoroughly. He's going to have to worm his way back in somehow, make the kid trust him all over again.  
"Good," Summer breathes, her posture relaxing a little. "I wasn't sure how much more of this I could take."  
"Alright, Summer, I know you're-you're like fucking stressed or whatever, but I-I-I haven't exactly had an adequate amount of-of sleep in the past, I don't know, four months, so if you don't mind, I'm going to go sleep like my life depends on it. At this point, i-it kind of does."  
"Okay, I'll um, I'll see you in the morning, Grandpa..." Summer holds the door open for Rick to follow her out, and they part ways at the top of the stairs.  
To Rick's content, his room remains untouched. Shutting the door quietly behind him, he takes it all in, scans over his endless plans and ideas on the wall, the countless gadgets that occupy all the surface space, the floor covered in half-empty liquor bottles. His throat clenches tight. His last drink had been at the bar, before he...  
He kicks one of the legs of his cot as he slides his back down against the door, but it doesn't budge. He doesn't want to think about this, about how completely and utterly he's fucked up. It makes his chest feel tight, like he can't breathe, just picturing over and over again the way Morty looked in that bar, the tablet slipping down his throat, the drink in his hand, the words he had shouted in the ship as he was swallowed by his own anger at Rick for leaving him. Did he really expect Morty to just move on and forget that he had ever existed? The kid was too sensitive for that kind of reaction. Rick knew that better than anyone and still he...  
He lands another blow to the cot as he grabs a bottle of whiskey from his cluttered nightstand.  
His fingers shake, no, not his fingers, his whole body, as he unscrews the cap. He doesn't want to think about this anymore. No, he'd much rather be face first in his mattress as he drifts off with a mind clouded by alcohol. He isn't even thinking about the irony in an idea like that.  
Lazily, he raises the bottle in a half-toast to no one in particular and chugs a fourth of what's left of the bottle.  
"You still got it, Sanchez," he murmurs, his eyes drooping as he allows his exhaustion to bring itself to the forefront. Practically dragging himself onto the bed, he sinks into the lumpy mattress, a smile plastered on his booze covered lips. "You still got it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! I hope you've enjoyed the first chapter because there's a lot more angst to come. Thanks to everyone who offered support on my tumblr (*cough* rickandmortysincave *cough*) for this work! It is my sincere wish that you'll stick around for the road ahead (because boy howdy it's going to be a long one). There won't be an update schedule because I'm terrible at keeping to them but I'll try to pump chapters out at least every other week or two. Let me know what you think, I'm always open to feedback. ☆


	2. Mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unwilling to deal with Rick's reappearance, Morty takes solace in drugs. His plan to escape reality, however, backfires when he finds himself in yet another nightmare.

In a way, the high used to be adrenaline. The thrill came from just that, a thrill, a distraction from the menial responsibilities and daily tasks of the ordinary life that Morty was sure he was destined to. Rick was the one that changed all that, the one that offered him something more. As he stumbled into his life he brought with him the promise of being a part of something greater. And if Morty was being honest, it wasn't an unwelcome idea. Sure, he had dealt with his fair share of immoral and dangerous schemes as a result, things that he could still see behind his eyes even when he so much as blinked, but he had always assumed that had come with the territory. There was always a price to pay for enjoying more than what you should, and he had thought he had been willing to pay it.  
He had thought a lot of naive things before Rick left him.  
He sighs heavily as he eyes himself in the mirror, feeling the weight of his chest like he's being pulled downward by ten pound weights. Even his body has become too weak to withstand the fluid distending of his own lungs, the movement of the muscles that constrict to keep his blood flowing throughout his frame a taxation on the little energy he can muster. For Morty, unwellness has become a constant state of being.  
But it's not a concern. Not much is anymore. Even the few things that he should be programmed to worry about, like his mom and sister, leave him unphased. Unwilling to deal with his own reality, he has created a general disconnect from the world around him.  
Not even that bothers him anymore.  
He tells himself not to dwell on recent events as the oh-so-familiar desk drawer glides open. He's not even entirely sure that they're real, that his imagination isn't just materializing what he wants to see. It's not as if it hasn't happened before. He can't even count on both hands how many times he thought he'd seen Rick in a crowd, or walking past him on a busy street. Rick suddenly appearing felt too hasty, sloppy even. It was definitely something that his mind had the ability to manifest, especially on a decent dose. It's not like he was keeping track of what was actually going into his body. If it had the potential to numb anything that attempted to claw it's way out of his head, he took it. There was no time to ask questions in between.  
The needle, while a recent addition to his piling collection of paraphernalia, already feels like an old friend to him. For the past three weeks it's carried with it the only chance at a peace of mind, at a sliver of the daze he so desperately seeks out. Drugs he'd taken prior paled in comparison to what the needle could provide him.  
Of course, he had been hesitant at first. He always was. It was an old habit that had stuck with him throughout his short lifetime, wouldn't even fade as he gradually became more negligent, more dangerous. In the moment it always seemed like a bother, an unnecessary pause before a breath of fresh air. Truth was, it'd probably saved his life more than a few times, though it wasn't something he would ever admit aloud. He had a reputation to upkeep now, albeit a risky one. His weak exterior had died the moment he found the quick fix for all of his turmoil.  
The belt seems kind of crude every time he uses it, like something you would see in a low budget indie film about a junkie. He hasn't found a better alternative yet, and seeming cliche for a moment is an easy tradeoff for the hours he'll spend in painless bliss. It feels tight when he wraps it around his upper arm, but it has to be. His veins have always been small. He vaguely remembers doctors complaining whenever they had to give him a shot, or draw blood. ' _Too tiny, much too tiny. It's like they're hiding from me_.' Of course, it's easier to find the few token veins in your arm that you can actually sink a needle into when you're familiar with doing it. Morty and his veins are practically best friends.  
A door creaks in the hallway, a sound he had all but forgotten. There's only one door in the house that creaks that badly, made worse by the months of wear from the drunk who sleeps behind it.  
"Do-Don't think about it," he commands himself, trying instead to focus on the task at hand. The fire from the lighter flicks and dips under the spoon erratically as he tries to hold himself together, tries to convince himself that he's strong enough to not deal with something so obviously right in front of him.  
But his mind is already plaguing him with memories he doesn't want to relive, until all he can see, feel, hear, is Rick, infesting his body like a deadly disease, threatening to break the very wall that he's spent months perfecting. Rick, who he's been worried over for the past four months, whose words haunt him every day of his life like some sort of phantom limb, unable to realize that their owner has long since abandoned them along with a life he had seemed almost content with.  
But a lot of things seemed different on the surface. Morty knew now that Rick would never be truly happy with where he was at. Not then, and not now. Amusement for Rick was as simple as breathing air into his lungs. It was something that couldn't you couldn't read into unless you wanted to get hurt. Morty had certainly learned that lesson.  
The needle draws in the liquid like a hug, enveloping the bottom of the barrel with a dark amber color. It always makes him feel sick to look at, sometimes with nausea, but mostly with shame and self-hatred. This isn't where Morty wants to be at in life. This isn't what he wants to be doing.  
He knows deep inside that he has more potential than this.  
He also knows that it's too late for regrets.  
His arm shifts to bask in the dull glow from the desk lamp, his eyes searching for just the right vein, avoiding the blossoms of yellow and purple bruises that dot his pallid skin. It lays in between two of the most abused, an oasis in a desert of aches that emanate from the tiny puncture wounds.  
He draws in a sharp breath as he lines the bevel up with the vein and sinks it in before he can register the pinch.  
The sight of blood used to make him squeamish, but now it's a good sign, means that he's in the clear to pump more poison into his veins, to escape a state of consciousness that he's not truly sure he can handle anymore. It's a promise that, even if just for a few hours, things are finally going to feel okay.  
The pressure on the plunger releases the contents of the barrel effortlessly, almost seems anticlimactic in comparison to the wave of relief it washes over his thoughts until he's practically buzzing with the rush, anticipation weighing heavily enough on his brain to banish all thoughts of Rick completely. He thinks that if he knew that all it took to get Rick off of his mind was getting high, he probably would've started before he'd even turned himself into the federation. It's not as if access would have been a problem.  
But he doesn't want to dwell too much on that. The last thing he needs is to start drawing comparisons between Rick and himself, especially when it comes to their flaws.  
The flow of blood in his legs feels like it's practically pulsating when he stands, stretching his scrawny arms toward the ceiling. He stares momentarily at the patterns in the tiles above his head, getting lost in the uneven ridges of white before his focus breaks to the door, where just outside the sound of someone making a slow trek to the bathroom reverberates off the empty hallway walls. He doesn't typically get fucked up in the house, mostly because it makes him anxious that he'll get caught and end up emotionally scarring someone who will probably "never forget the sight of walking in on their son/brother shooting up" or some other cliche that one would typically hear from family members of users. Not that he truly intends to make light of the damage that kind of thing can have on a person. He might not truly care about much in life, but he's not a monster...or at least he'd like to think. A monster with a shred of morality left, maybe. Even that seems like a decent title at this point.  
He can already feel the high building up in him like an impending orgasm by the time he falls back onto the mattress. The waiting is always the hard part, almost feels like an itch that he can't scratch. When it comes down to an immediate high versus a strong and long lasting one, though, he always finds himself choosing the latter. Everything has a trade-off. Waiting to reach nirvana is usually the more rewarding compromise.  
He flops over and reaches out to the nightstand to rummage through the drawer, withdrawing a pair of headphones and plugging them into the respective jack on his phone. There's a plethora of songs that he could play, most of them eerily reminiscent of Rick in one way or another, so instead he opens an old playlist, made long before the guy's name had even been spoken of in their house, back when things were normal and everything was sucky in a way that he sort of misses now. The song that thrums in his ears brings him back to a time when he was completely isolated, not exactly depressed but not enjoying life either. It was a stagnant period. Quiet. It's hard to imagine what that even feels like anymore.  
It seems a little strange. If he went back in time and told himself that there would be a point in his life when he would miss being an absolute nobody, the old him probably would've laughed in his face.  
Which brings up an interesting question, one he's thought of several times since he started his substance abuse. If his life had stayed the same, if Rick had never come to live with them, would he still have ended up the way he was now? It was already obvious that addiction ran through his veins. Rick and his mom were doing a stellar job of making that exceptionally apparent. So, what if he had reached the end of his rope? When his parents fighting and his overwhelming loneliness had won out, would he have sought out the same numb? Was he always destined to be the way he was now?  
The thought doesn't stick around long enough to reach full dispute once the high takes over. It runs through him in one fell swoop, encasing him in that glorifying feeling of rightness. He grips the edges of the sheets in his bony fingers to gain his bearings, to ground himself to that very spot in reality where everything feels excellent and all harsh memories are forgotten. He never wants to let this feeling go. It's practically the only thing left in the world that he's truly living for.  
The music murmurs sweet nothings in his ears. That's one of the sensations he loves most. Music always sounds better when he's high, much easier to appreciate. The underlying loops and beats become more apparent, shine a unique light on the song that makes it much different from the others. For awhile, it's just Morty and the music in an infinite loop of sound and reaction, of heartfelt metaphors hidden deep in the lyrics and the fluttering of an erratic heart that understands their meaning. He can't even remember his own name and that's exactly the way he likes it.  
Morty is never sure when he's reached the peak on H. It's easier to pick apart the phases of his high when the drugs he's consuming allow him to remain semi-coherent, but H is different. It takes him out of his head completely, shrouds him in a blanket of euphoric numb that dissipates his own existence entirely. It's the holy grail of drugs for those who no longer want to feel. He's more hooked to this feeling than he'd care to admit.  
He releases the sheets from his rigid grip and runs a shaky hand through his wild curls, is on the brink of a thought but forgets it as quickly as it came. A soft mumble of lyrics string through his tangled head, whispering to him over and over again like a broken record, " _I watched you deal in a dying day/ And throw a living past away/ So you can be sure that you're in control_ ". Something about it feels off, and he can't figure out why the words seem so strikingly familiar to him, like a story he's heard a million times before.  
At any rate, he's far too gone to decipher whatever it is that he's feeling. He copies the name of the song into the notes on his phone, almost positive that he probably won't be able to interpret whatever he's written when he's sober enough to read it, and skips to the next one, hoping to shake whatever it is in the back of his head that's trying to grab his attention. He relaxes considerably when the tune becomes something a little more cheerful.  
And finally, even after the catastrophe that was his Saturday evening, which he can now only vaguely remember in the dimmest, quietest places of his mind, things feel okay. More than okay, actually. He feels like he can finally breathe, can allow himself the freedom to sing quietly along with the music and tap his foot to the beat and smile when the low tones of the music feel practically infectious. He can enjoy something as simple as listening to some shitty song from his even shittier childhood, and it's a carelessness that he never wants to let go of.  
It's not often that he truly feels tired anymore. Perhaps, he thinks, it's because he's actually in a constant state of exhaustion, so much so that it feels natural to him now. He can't exactly remember when he stopped sleeping as often as he used to, mainly because he's felt as if he's always had the nightmares that now plague his unconscious state. In fact, sleep was the last string of thread that kept him from straying down the path that he was currently on, the last known escape from a harsh and unforgiving reality. Even that had been lost to Rick, yet another pleasant thing that he had ruined for Morty. He was the star of every scary dream, the etched memory of his drunken smile a permanent fixture in his already troubled head. Too often Morty had found himself screaming into the quiet still of his room, trying desperately to shake the unwanted images from his vision and failing miserably.  
Yet somehow, perhaps by a complete and utter miracle, he dozes off. At first it's a peaceful and much needed sleep. Time passes quickly in the comforting blackness as it should, rejuvenating him enough so that he'll be able to go the next few days without sleeping at all. It doesn't take much anymore.  
But tonight is no exception, and he knows it. The blackness eventually fades into something more vivid, fuzzy for awhile, but coming into focus once he decides that the sooner he focuses, the quicker the dream will be over. At least he's practiced enough to be able to talk himself through it now.  
He's somewhere in the house...the garage, he thinks. The memory of the room is still a little hazy. It's a place he hasn't been in in four months. Rick is sitting at his workbench, bent over some device that Morty can't quite make out. He hopes he'll be lucky enough to not have to see his face, that maybe by some miracle it'll be one of those rare night terrors where he doesn't have to truly look at Rick at all.  
Morty has never been one for luck.  
Rick turns around and eyes Morty up and down, his expression not saying much of anything. His lips seem to make out words that Morty can't hear.  
"I can't...Speak up," he urges, trying to will the whole thing to move even a fraction of a second faster. Rick appears to clear his throat and then stands, traipsing toward Morty until his hands rest heavily on his frail shoulders.  
"I said, you're a good kid, Morty."  
Morty raises a quizzical eyebrow. "What?" Something feels off. He's never been praised in a dream that involved Rick before.  
"What, do-do I gotta spell it out for you? I'm telling you th-that you're a-a-a good kid, okay?" Rick smiles a little, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes.  
Morty sighs, shakes his head a little. "Sure, Rick, whatever you say." He can feel the grip on his shoulders tightening. "L-Let me go," he pleads, his gaze locked on the long fingers that don't seem to stop squeezing. He feels like he's going to bruise.  
"I-It's fine, Morty, stop--don't be a baby about it." The pain is almost unbearable now, like Rick is practically pressing his hands far enough inwards to scrape Morty's bones. He opens his mouth to cry out, but finds that no sound escapes. He wants to shriek, to beg, to tell Rick that he'll do whatever he wants if he'll just _stop touching him_ , but in the next second he's gone completely, leaving Morty only with an aching sensation in his shoulders. He thinks it's over, it must be, now that Rick has disappeared, but the moment he turns, he's faced with something even more horrifying than the agony of Rick's touch.  
At first he thinks Rick has simply reappeared, manifested in another part of the garage, perhaps there if only to taunt Morty's eagerness for the nightmare to be over.  
But even that would seem mild in comparison to what he's actually facing.  
As he raises his hands, the figure in front of him does the same. He opens his mouth to speak, but it seems that Rick has something to say as well. He stops, stares down at the floor, waits for a voice that will never come, looks back up, and that's when he realizes something that sends a shocking jolt throughout his entire frame, a frame that is not his own.  
He's looking into a mirror.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Disclaimer: I've never done heroin, so I can't exactly say that I know what it feels like to be high on it. I did enough research on it to probably convince anyone who looks through my search history that I'm a junkie, though, so hopefully that helped me portray what it might be like.   
> Anyways, hey, it's been awhile! Here I am with chapter two, which I actually rewrote like three separate times because I'm a picky bitch. I hope you guys like it as much as you did the first chapter. I worked super hard on it, so let me know what you think. Auf Wiedersehen! ☆


	3. Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick's intentions to confront Morty don't exactly go according to plan.

"I'm just so glad you're back, Dad. I thought we'd lost you for good."   
Rick fakes an enthusiastic grin, pats Beth's shoulder for good measure. He wants to participate in whatever homecoming welcomes that he's bound to receive from his daughter, really, he does, but he can't stop sneaking glances at Morty from across the table. Maybe it's the daylight streaming in through the dining room window that's accentuating the severity of his appearance, but if the kid didn't look like he had one foot in the grave last night, he sure as hell does now. It's almost startling to see up close, makes Rick want to kick himself for not getting out of prison sooner. These past four months have not been kind to Morty, that much is clear.   
"O-Of course not, sweetie," he assures, nimble fingers maneuvering to bring a cup of coffee to his lips, already covered in the acrid smell of early morning booze. "Not even prison can-can keep me away from your cooking," he schmoozes, eliciting any eye roll from Morty. Beth takes the bait, of course.   
"Oh, Dad," she sighs lovingly, practically oozing with adoration that Rick absolutely does not deserve. It makes Morty feel ill in more ways than one. He's playing Beth like a fiddle and she's either too blind or too naive too see it. Luckily for Morty, he won't be as trusting this time around. Beth can play into whatever facade she pleases, but he'll be damned if he's going to humor her.  
"Mom, I need money for school," Summer cuts in casually, eyes still glued to her phone. The shine of whatever moment she was having fades from Beth's exterior, and she turns, blinking a few times as if adjusting to reality  
"Oh, of course, sweetie." She plucks her purse from the floor beside her and roots around the clutter, her fingers clasping on a crumpled twenty at the bottom. As if out of habit, she turns to Morty, who is now entirely detached from the casual occurrences of a morning spent with family that he's, for some inexplicable reason, forcing himself to endure. "Morty?"   
He looks up from his plate momentarily, his eyebrows drawn in confusion. "What?   
"Do you need money?" She asks sweetly, the corner of her mouth quirking into an innocent smile.    
"Y-You never..." He decides to change course before he can talk his way out of a gift that seems to be elicited by nothing other than her overwhelming joy at Rick's presence. She never offers him money anymore, usually too concerned about what exactly it is that he'll spend it on, and for good reason. "Yeah, s-sure." He forces an appreciative look in return and reaches over his plate to accept the folded bill in her hand. At least Rick's sudden return is good for one thing.   
"How are your classes going Summer? Mr. Hamlet said the transition was going okay."   
"They're fine," she assures, shoving her food around her plate with mild disinterest. "The teachers ask about Morty a lot."   
Morty glares daggers from across the table.   
"Oh, do they?" Beth asks nervously, rubbing the back of her neck. "I hope they don't say anything bad."  
"No, just questions mostly," she shrugs.  
"What...uh, what do you tell them?"  
"I just say he's living with extended family in another state." Morty has to stifle a laugh. He imagines Summer stumbling over an explanation to Goldenfold, making up the name of some old auntie living in Arizona, or maybe Vermont, explaining that being 'surrounded by nature' was doing wonders for his psyche, or some other bullshit excuse. The teachers probably saw through her more than she'd care to believe. Morty was practically the talk of the town at this point, the shy and dejected boy gone rebellious, a taboo among taboos for small towns like theirs. There really wasn't much use in lying anymore.  
"Oh, well...maybe he'll 'come back' in time to graduate," Beth quips, but the moment it comes out of her mouth she regrets it. School is a sensitive subject for Morty.   
"Mom," he warns lackadaisically, taking a bite of his untouched food.   
She clears her throat and clambers for a change of topic. "Dad, now that you're back do you have any big adventures planned?"   
Rick raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Do-Do you really skirt around him like that?"   
Beth sputters. "I, um, what?   
Morty cocks his head to the side, waits patiently for whatever Rick feels he has the right to say. If he hadn't vowed to ignore the old man entirely, he would have already interjected, if only to prevent himself from hearing Rick talk for a second more than what's absolutely necessary. As far as he's concerned, nothing that Rick says is ever absolutely necessary.   
"Y-You're his mother, Beth. I-I-If you say he should go to school, th-then he should-should go the fuck to school." Coming from Rick, the idea is entirely laughable. How many days of school had Morty missed in favor of being dragged off on some intergalactic errand?  
"Dad, it's fine, really..."  
"No," he cuts in. "It's not fine." And then he turns, his eyes the epitome of authority, and stares at Morty, or more so into him, to get his message across. And for once, to Morty's own surprise, he's entirely unfazed. How strange it was to think that four months ago, that exact look had struck fear into his heart more times than he could count. "Go to school," he demands, like it's somehow going to force Morty to do exactly what he says, be some puppet on a string by sheer whim alone.   
Morty opens his mouth to speak, afraid to hear the unsure quiver in his own voice as he breaks his vow of silence to tell Rick to mind his own business, to stop concerning himself with matters tied to him entirely, but it's Summer who cuts in, effectively saving Morty from the words that they both know probably won't come.   
"Grandpa, can we talk in the kitchen for a sec?" She asks, her voice strained, her eyes drawing pointedly to the arched doorway that leads into the kitchen. Rick sighs.  
"Y-Yeah, Summer, sure." The two stand, leaving Morty and Beth in silence at the table.  
Summer whirls around as soon as the door shuts behind them, her voice no more than a hushed whisper. “What the hell are you doing?”   
“What y-you…what you asked me to do!” Rick stresses.   
“No,” Summer corrects, dragging a hand through the strands of her mousy red hair. “I asked you to get through to him, not play ‘Simon Says’. If that worked he’d already be going to school.”   
“Jesus Christ,” Rick mutters to himself, withdrawing his flask from one of the many pockets in his coat. “I-I think we all know that Grandpa isn’t the-the-the fucking prime contender for using h-his words.”   
Summer jabs an accusatory finger into his chest. “You were the one that left, Rick. _You_ fix it.”   
“Summer, school!” Beth calls, passing a concerned glance at Morty as she collects her things. “Are you going to be okay?” She asks, so quietly that Morty isn’t entirely sure if the question is directed at him.  
“Of course,” he lies, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. It’s the best he can attempt at an actual smile. “A-Always am.”  
She nods in agreement and turns toward the door, seems to accept that Morty has mislead her, but something stops her at the last second. She glances over her shoulder at her son, practically slumped over his scarcely touched meal on the table, looking weak and fragile and in need of a good night’s sleep. “Just…” She takes a deep breath. “Just do me one favor, okay? Talk to him. Maybe he has something to say that’ll make you feel…” Even she knows that what she’s about to suggest is a long shot. “…more at ease.”     
“I-I’ll think about it.” It’s the best he can offer her.  
“That’s all I’m asking…” and then, “Summer! We’re going to be late!”  
“Coming,” Summer huffs, flattening the wrinkles in her top as she storms out of the kitchen. She glimpses at Morty, grabbing her bag from beside her chair. She wants to offer some words of consolation, knowing that Rick probably won’t heed any of her advice, but figures Morty won’t accept it coming from her. She’s the only reason Rick is bothering himself with helping Morty in the first place. “I love you,” she trills awkwardly, hoping it will provide some sort of consolation. Morty mumbles something incoherent in response and lowers the rest of his head onto the table. It’s the last image Summer sees before she runs out the door after Beth.  
He feels sick, and not the kind of sick that can be easily riddled away with medicine. The thought of being in the house alone with Rick is enough to make his anxiety rear on the side of ugly. Everything feels like it’s closing in around him, his skin, the walls, the impending sense of doom that typically sits in the back of his mind.   
And suddenly he can’t breathe.  
Clutching his chest, he hoists himself up from his seat, making a mental note to clear off the table before he stumbles into the kitchen, praying to whatever god he doesn’t believe in that Rick has left the room. This time, luck seems to be on his side.  
He stands next to the open window for a moment, lets the morning breeze rush over his heated face, tries to take slow, steady breaths. It’s been a long time since he’s had a panic attack, yet he’s overcome with a sense of relief that he’s still accustomed to easily talking himself out of them. All he has to do is reroute his state of mind, focus on forcing himself to breathe rather than all the things that seem to be going wrong. It was a practice he had gotten used to after one too many adventures gone awry with Rick. At some point he had to figure a way to tough it out before Rick could come up with his own, likely more aggressive way to address the situation. The guy wasn't exactly known for his comforting nature.  
Morty sighs, knows that thinking about Rick isn't going to really make him feel better. He's the reason for Morty's unease in the first place. He just hopes that he'll have enough decency to take a hint and leave the unspoken things between them, well...unspoken. Even if he didn't have a tendency to open his mouth at the wrong time, his lust for spite would make that hope seem nothing short of a miracle. The thought sends a shiver up Morty's spine. Things are going to have to be addressed at some point. Not knowing when isn't doing him any favors. He laughs to himself as he heads to the fridge, rooting around for a bottle of water to ease his parched throat. At least he knows that he'll never be ready.  
"Morty, c-can we just talk for a second?"  
Morty rocks back on his heels as he shuts the door to the refrigerator, seems to mull over Rick's request as he takes a sip from the water bottle in his hand. Of course Rick would take the opportunity to corner him as soon as they were alone. He's not really sure if he expected any different.  
"Hmm, no," he answers abruptly, wiping the dribble of water that's run down his chin. His fight or flight instincts have kicked in, and for once in his life he's choosing fight. Go figure.  
"Morty, come on, just-just hear me out."  
Morty sighs, bracing his hands on the counter to hoist himself up, letting his legs dangle beneath him. He won't meet Rick's gaze. "There's nothing you can-can say to me th-th-that I haven't already heard before, and since I-I'm being honest, it means a-a-a lot less coming from you than it does Mom or Summer."  
Rick throws his hands into the air, already exasperated with the turn of conversation. "Y-You're just being a fucking baby Morty! A-A fucking little baby over nothing."  
"Maybe," Morty admits, allowing his head to fall back against the cabinet. "But what you think about me doesn't r-really matter anymore."  
"Th-This goes farther than my-my-my fucking _opinion_ of you, Morty," Rick groans, scrubbing a hand over his ashen face.  
Morty chuckles dryly. "D-Don't act like y-you know what's in my best interest."  
"Morty, a fucking blind man c-could see what's in your best interest. Are-Are you kidding me? Look at yourself." The icy glare that finally causes Morty to turn his head is enough to let Rick know that he's probably struck a nerve. Not even a solid five minutes into the conversation and he's already treading thin ice. Great. "Listen, kid, I'm just trying to-to look out for you."  
"Don't," Morty suggests with finality, lowering himself down from the counter. "I-I don't need your pity."  
"It's not pity," Rick insists as Morty turns to leave. It can't be over, not yet. Hell, has it even really started? He's barely gotten a word in edge-wise. "It's--"  
Morty whirls around before Rick can finish, something in his eyes so cold and stony that it sends a wave of shock down Rick's spine. "What, love?" Rick flounders helplessly, trying to grasp for words that won't come. A few seconds of tense silence sit between them. "Yeah, that's-that's what I thought." He treads tentatively toward Rick, hoping that he'll allow him to pass without causing a fuss. He's already had enough of whatever conversation the old man is trying to bully out of him.  
"Come on Morty," Rick pleads. "I-I don't remember you ever being this stubborn."  
"Things have changed," Morty informs him casually, taking a deliberate step forward. Rick extends an arm to block him.  
"Look, I just want to--"  
"Y-You want to help s-so you can-can get Mom and Summer off your back, I-I get it," Morty huffs, his tone clipped.  
"A-And what if I said that I wanted to-to help because I cared?" Rick dares.  
"Then that-that would be an-another lie to add to-to the hundreds you've already told me."  
"You're not giving me a chance."  
"You had your-your fucking chance," he spits, shoving Rick's arm out of the way so that he can pass. To his surprise, Rick lets him go without putting up anymore argument. Maybe he'll always be this prone to giving up easy from now on. Morty shakes his head as he collects plates from the table. He knows better than to dream.  
Rick stands alone in the kitchen, trying to take in everything that Morty has said. Since when did he ever have to collectively think about anything that came out of the kid's mouth? And to think the drugs would have made him more stupid. It seemed liked there was never a moment when the brat didn't go out of his way to defy the odds. At least that had never changed.  
He's fondly reminded of all the times that Morty had exceeded his expectations in the past, maybe said something uncharacteristically smart or saved Rick's ass once or twice after they'd had an argument in which Rick had purposefully said something to cut deep. Admittedly it almost hurt to think that there might not be any memories like that between the two of them again. As far as Morty was concerned, Rick's absence had only solidified all those cold words, had proven effortlessly just how little he cared about Morty's opinion, cared about Morty, period. He had dug himself a deep hole when he left, and damned if he knew how he was going to get out of it.  
☆  
"I thought you said your grandpa was in prison."  
Morty takes a long sip from the drink in his hand. "Yeah, well, sh-shit changes, I guess," he murmurs unhappily.  
"How did it go?" the question makes Morty's head hurt.  
"How d-do you think it went? He's still a-a-a fucking prick." Dylan wraps a lengthy arm around Morty's shoulders, leaning closer to him on the curb for support before he can lose his balance. Being an eloquent drunk is not one of his strong suits.  
"Just forget about him, Morty. It sounds like he...sure doesn't give a fuck about you."  
"Jeez, D, th-thanks for the consoling words," Morty bites, rolling his eyes. It's not like it's a truth he hasn't faced before.  
"Sometimes people need to-to have the obvious stated to them, Morty. Tough love or something. It's some Dr.Phil shit."  
"Yeah, well," Morty chuckles, removing the glass from Dylan's hand and placing it safely beside him, "save it for someone who needs it. My-My therapy ship has sailed."  
"Damn, guess I can save myself the trouble of getting the...the PhD then," he smiles wantonly, pulling Morty in for a kiss that rears on the edge of lewd. Public affection doesn't really bother Morty like it used to, but Dylan has the tendency to take it farther than most.  
"Alright, D, you're drunk," Morty sighs, giving a gentle shove to the muscular chest pressed gingerly into his.  
"Yeah, tell me...tell me something I don't know," he beams, untangling himself from Morty. "Are you coming inside?"  
"O-Of course." Morty offers his hand to steady Dylan as they push up from the curb, a blur of bare skin and tight clothing and empty glasses begging to be refilled as quickly as they're emptied.  
"Think that cute bartender brought any party favors?"  
Morty quirks a concerned brow. "You told me you-you brought some."  
"Since when are you concerned about limits?" He laughs, rooting around in his pockets to drop a clear bag into Morty's hand before they duck into the back entrance of the bar. "You get a head start, y-you look like you could use the pick-me-up. I'll be right back." Morty hates being left alone in a crowd, but he's not one to object, especially when left with a consolation prize.  
Head already swimming from the booze, he claims a less populated corner off the dance floor and takes a bump, then a second, and a third, until he's floating on cloud nine, too incoherent to take notice when Dylan comes back and drags him off to meet some group of so and so's that have been 'just dying' to meet him. He's not even trying to keep up with the conversation at this point, instead content to let his cohort do all the talking as his eyes scan the mass of moving bodies before him, laughing and dancing and kissing and living. It isn't long until he's pining for the same feeling. He pulls Dylan by the hand to dance to a song that he swears he know, lets his hips gyrate and his arms extend and his feelings go unfelt. .  
The world is nothing more than a fast paced haze. They exchange words he can't remember, his heart races, he drinks whatever Dylan presses between his fingertips, and before he can take another breath the world fades into a blissful black.  
   
   
   
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's it been, like three weeks? Not bad for someone with zero motivation, am I right? No? Okay, fine. In all fairness, being drunk and napping are both fairly hard work.  
> Anyways, I hope you liked the third chapter! Rick is realizing just how angry Morty is and things are only going to get more angsty from here on out! Hooray!  
> Leave some love, feedback, unnecessary screaming, I don't care. I'm just glad you guys are enjoying the story!


	4. Wrath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty attempts to recollect the events that led up to him being helped by a stranger. Rick struggles with control.

Morty wakes to a muted thudding in his ears, accompanied by a ringing that doesn't seem to stop. His head feels like it's filled with cotton, and he can't process the scene unfolding in front of him no matter how hard he tries. He curls in on himself, let's his eyes slip closed again, tries to force himself to think, but he can't. He feels like he's suspended in a pool of water, and no matter how hard he tries to flail his limbs or call out for help, it doesn't work. Morty has effectively trapped himself with drugs. The anxiety in the back of his mind that wonders if this feeling will ever end isn't doing him any favors.  
And then he's being picked up, or at least he thinks he is, and he has to admit that it's kind of nice, like being carried out of a car after you fall asleep. The arms beneath him are solid, secure. He thinks about all the times Jerry had scooped him out of the backseat of the station wagon after a long trip, his eyes would flutter open for a quick second, he would see the muted lights in the windows of the house, and then he would slip back into that pleasant place between sleep and reality.  
It's a memory he holds on to even as he's placed gently on what must be some sort of seat. It smells like motor oil and a little like mildew, and the fabric feels itchy on his overheated skin. He wants to complain but can't exactly find the words. He settles for a displeased groan that vibrates in the back of his throat, probably sounds more like some sort of guttural growl than a sign that's he detesting, but it's the best he can do.  
"Yeah, well, sorry it's not The Ritz. Take it or leave it."  
Morty's eyes snap open. There isn't much to see at first, only a pale glow that he quickly recognizes as a lit up dash. It's hard to make shapes and figures out in the dark, especially from his position in what has to be the backseat of some vehicle. The only solace he can take is that the voice seems to be familiar. It'll have to do.  
His back hugs the upholstery as the car lurches forward, the thrum of the engine the only sound to break the silence. For awhile it's tense, quiet between the two of them. He wants to ask a million questions but he still hasn't quite come to yet, doesn't have full control over the movements in his body. The best he can manage is working his jaw, but that only serves to make him look like a fish out of water. He settles for the taciturnity between himself and his company, scans the darkness for awhile to sate himself.  
A few minutes pass with ease, almost relaxing enough to lull Morty to sleep were his mind not so effortlessly gripped with the effects of the narcotics. It almost seems too quick when they come to a grinding halt, the sounds of metal settling creaking in his oversensitive ears.  
He's ushered out almost immediately, his knees feeling weak as he attempts to stand for a second and fails miserably. He's caught by steady hands, held against a too-warm chest as the door is slammed shut behind them. It's no lighter here than the car; his eyes strain to see but refuse to correctly adjust.  
"Sit." A chair is pressed to the back of his legs, hard and uncomfortable like the ones in school. He tumbles in with the chagrin that comes with noticing that his body is reacting quicker than his brain, feels completely and utterly out of control in a way that causes frustrated wetness to pool at the corners of his eyes before he can even notice that it's there.  
There's some rooting around, the sound of a cabinet opening and closing, a short string of mumbles, and then the sensation of another body pressing close to him again, invading his personal space. He gasps in a breath, but the air seems thicker than usual.  
"Open."  
Morty complies because he doesn't really see another option. His mouth falls open easily and something cold slips past his lips, deposits a sugary substance onto his tongue. He swallows dutifully, thinks maybe he's putting a little too much trust into this voice that he can't quite place. It doesn't matter. If something bad is meant to happen then it will happen. His compliance in the matter will only delay the inevitable.  
"Here." Something is thrust between his shaking finger tips that he doesn't quite understand until he feels the heave in his stomach. He bends his head before he can sprew vomit and throws up violently into the trash can in his lap. The alcohol hurts a lot more coming up than it did going down, like hell fire in his throat. He feels hot tears slip down his cheeks as he struggles for air, thinks he's going to pass out from lack of oxygen. When his stomach is finally empty he simply chokes on nothingness until his gag reflex settles for a blessed second. Air seems more valuable than gold.  
"Fuck," he groans, bleary-eyed. It's the first word he's spoken in what's probably been hours, but it still sends another tight clench in his stomach that has him gagging again.  
The first thing he notices when the room floods with a sudden, harsh light, is how sweaty he is. His skin glistens down to the fingertips with a sheen of perspiration that collects in the centers of his palms. The sight of it has brought to the forefront just how uncomfortable the sensation is.  
The second thing he notices is a much more harrowing sight, and it sends what feels like icy shards of glass through his already upset stomach. Leaning against the work table with tired eyes and his typical air of nonchalance, Rick is staring down at him with a troubled expression.  
"You..." Morty hunches forward and spits, struggling to keep his gaze locked on the troublesome old man in front of him. "What...Why a-are you..." His cracked lips form around a question that refuses to make itself present. Why could Rick never leave well enough alone? For a genius, it sure seemed like he struggled to take a hint more often than not.  
"I found you," Rick murmurs, as if that clears the air entirely. Morty huffs an exasperated breath and tries to focus.  
"Why?" He stresses. His throat feels dry and sore, as if rubbed with coarse sandpaper.  
"L-Look, Morty, maybe you should get some rest before we--"  
"No," he interrupts, bracing his hands on the table as he forces himself to stand. "Did you...did you follow me?"  
The space between them becomes heavy with tension.  
"N-Not...at first."  
"So you followed me," he confirms between gritted teeth, flexing his dampened fingers on the linoleum.  
"You don't understand Morty, I-I--"  
"Where is it?" He demands with a hardened glare, shaking with anger and drugs and exhaustion.  
Rick cocks an eyebrow, at first assuming that Morty is confused by his hazed perspective. "Where's what?"  
"The-The fucking tracking chip, Rick, I-I-I want to know where it is."  
Rick sighs. "I'm not going to--"  
Morty has no patience for objections. Hearing Rick talk makes him want to scream. "Where is it?" He urges again, shoving Rick hard.  
Rick grabs him briskly, traces his long, cold fingers on the outside of Morty's bicep. "Here."  
"Take it out."  
Rick lets out a humorless chuckle. This is something he can't afford to budge on. "No."  
"I-It's not a-a-a fucking suggestion, Rick! Take it out," he commands, each word ground out separately. There's no way he's leaving the garage without the chip coming out one way or another.  
"I won't."  
"Fine," he agrees. It takes him all but five seconds to withdraw a pocket knife from his hip, watching with a smug satisfaction at the way the glint of the blade seems to send Rick into a panic.  
"Morty, don't--" He extends an arm to retrieve the weapon from Morty's unsteady grasp, but he's quickly swatted away with one hand while the other presses tenderly into his arm in search of the device.  
"Touch me and I'll scream," he promises with finality, gripping the handle tighter between his palm once he feels something foreign beneath the battered skin. He's surprised it's taken him this long to notice.  
"A-A-Are you fucking crazy?"  
"Yeah, probably," Morty deadpans with a shrug.  
He has to admit, it doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would. Maybe he has the high to thank for that, or perhaps his lack of feeling entirely. It doesn't really matter. The edge of the blade drags against something metal, the sight causing Rick to visibly cringe and avert his gaze. It sends a jolt of satisfaction up his spine to get under Rick's skin for once instead of the other way around, even if that means getting under his own.  
The knife clatters onto the counter, and if Rick thought that seeing Morty cut himself was painful to watch, then the moment he thrusts his fingers into the wound is pure agony, makes his own stomach do a back flip a thousand times over. Being squeamish about blood is something reserved long in the past, in fact, he can't remember the last time the sight of blood had been anything other than a minor inconvenience to him, but seeing Morty, _his_ Morty, so willingly injure himself is another thing entirely. It isn't the first time he's seen the kid bleed, hell, it probably won't be the last, but this confirms something that Rick had hoped to avoid entirely. Morty has gone off the deep end, dangerously treading the line between the point of no return, and damned if Rick isn't going to have a hell of a time getting him back.  
The chip is almost unrecognizable once withdrawn, it's tiny blips monotonous as Morty places it carefully between the two of them, cocking his head to the side as if daring Rick to say something.  
"There," he smiles triumphantly, ignoring the steady trickle of scarlet running down his arm. Rick can only stand for a moment, mouth agape, trying to process a proper response to the situation.  
Sure, in retrospect he probably had no business putting a tracking device in Morty without his permission in the first place, but in times of dire need, say, the events that unfolded prior to the standoff they were facing between them now, it had saved Morty's virtue and, more importantly, his life, more than once. Because what Rick had failed to mention was that it was much more than a tracking device. No, this wasn't your typical, run-of-the-mill dog tag. Such a notion would be an insult to Rick's genius. The chip, no more than an inch in length, kept tabs on heart rate, pulse, blood pressure, levels of adrenaline, and many, many other vitals that reported to the tracker and rang a shrill alert when something appeared out of the ordinary. Subsequently, those features had been the very thing that had saved Morty's life tonight.  
But he can't just say that.  
The idea of being 'followed' as Morty so simply put it, clearly does not sit well with him. Imagine his anger were he to discover the device's full potential.  
Rick simply can't find the nerve to tell him, bold as he might be. Things are already teetering on the side of hostile. All chances at an explanation, reasonable as it might seem to Rick after the state he'd found Morty in, appear to be nothing short of futile. Morty is pissed, he's high, he's not thinking clearly, and at the top of that fucked up totem pole, he hates Rick something fierce. There's no way either of them are going to get a word in edge-wise without all hell breaking lose.  
So Rick does what Rick Sanchez does best: he leaves.  
☆  
It takes Morty all but a moment to realize just how profusely he's bleeding, and with an unsurprising lack of medical knowledge under his belt, he's forced to shoddily repair the self-inflicted damages to his arm. As it is, he has enough experience to know how to use a tourniquet expertly, at least, so the bleeding lasts no longer than a few minutes before he wraps up the wound in gauze and vows to clean it in the morning, already exhausted from an evening that he can only remember half of.  
He doesn't care where Rick is.  
He doesn't care about whatever excuse he has for following him and retrieving him from the club in a drugged up stupor. It wouldn't even matter to him if there was logical reasoning to back him up. As far as he's concerned, he no longer holds the right to meddle in his affairs, good or bad. He could've died on that dance floor with Rick standing ten feet away and would have still preferred that he do nothing to interfere. The last thing he needed was to owe Rick any favors.  
He's still curious, though, as to what caused the worry in Rick's eyes, underneath the cold gaze that he usually carried about him, lying underneath the surface, barely noticeable unless you looked hard enough. He had seen that look only a handful of times before, usually when the two had been in a situation that Morty was certain Rick didn't know how to get them out of.  
He tries pointedly to remember what had happened before he had felt himself lifted into the ship, but can only see the bits and pieces as they feel fit to make themselves present. It's like trying to solve a jigsaw puzzle under thick layers of static, clearing for a moment in one area only to quickly close up in another.  
The first thing he remembers is the cold press of bricks against his shoulders, the whisper of words that he strains to focus on. Whose mouth had they fallen from, dripped onto his oh-so-close lips like honey, persuasive and breathtaking and suffocating all in one sentence? What person at this stage of life could possess such a hold over him?  
It clicks together suddenly, a sudden victory in his search for the whole picture.  
Dylan. Dylan had pulled him into the alley behind the club, and Morty can practically feel his legs, unsteady and loose beneath him as if made of taffy. What was is that he had said?  
"Will you finally let me do it?"  
Morty, at first, had not been entirely sure what he meant. There were plenty of things that they talked of doing, things that Morty knew to heart would never happen in a thousand years, dreams they had ruined for themselves and no one else.  
"Do what?" He'd inquired, airing out his confusion. Dylan of all people should have known that he could never be trusted to be of sound mind, especially when they went out together and got lost in the numb of whatever they could force into their bloodstreams.  
"Don't play dumb," he chuckled, all low and sweet, drawing out that heat in the center of Morty's core that he knew how to use so well to his advantage. "You've been holding out on me all this time. I'm sick of getting quick handies like you're some freshman girl after homecoming."  
The words pieced themselves together with surprising tenacity, and Morty's stomach began to stir with an unease that had nothing to do with the drugs. Lips frozen in place, he found that his mind could only repeat to itself one shrill plea, a chorus of 'no, no, no' that vibrated to the very depths of his being.  
Morty has seen what's happened to those who have refused Dylan for much lesser things, the ruthless and often senseless punishments they had received simply by denying a request to him. He's been lucky enough to be held in high favors since the beginning, to be showered in the generosity and adoration that came from the small need inside of Dylan to give, but even he knows that that can change in an instant. People like D take what they want irregardless.  
"Please," he had whispered, looking up at Morty through thick lashes. His hand slid underneath his tank top before he could give an answer, the shock of cold fingers on his ribcage enough to send him into action.  
"D..." He bit his lower lip and shoved him away lightly, feeling weak in the knees as his eyes roamed his face for some kind of reaction. "I-I don't think I'm ready," he scrambled quickly, a half-smile and desperate gaze all he could offer in the tense silence between them.  
The last thing he can remember is pain.  
☆  
Rick sips dutifully from his flask and tries to race the visions in his head with the numb of alcohol as he drifts along the atmosphere.  
He's not stupid, though.  
His mind, like many others, has the tendency to focus on the exact thing he's trying to forget, holding onto it with a vice grip that's hard to break away from. Even as his brain is shrouded with the comfort of alcohol, he finds that the images still sit behind his eyes with a startling clarity, an etched memory that refuses to fade away no matter how hard he wills it.  
Morty had been on the ground.  
His arms were held close to his chest in a manner that seemed almost defensive, thought it appeared from the shadowy spot in the alley that he wasn't moving, or for that matter, even coherent enough to be able to protect himself. His position resembled that of someone who had taken a sudden fall.  
Above him appeared to be the boy Rick had seen in the stairwell with Morty from the night of his return. In the dark it was hard to decipher what exactly he was doing, but he mumbled out something incoherent that rang against the walls and sent goosebumps up Rick's arms.  
He sounded practically inhuman, his voice somewhere between a primal growl and an exasperated sigh as he seemed to complain about something that Rick couldn't quite understand. Only the last part, which seemed to make little sense considering the context, stuck out to him, a clear emphasis of the word 'lesson', which he repeated once or twice before crouching down and petting Morty's hair.  
Rick leaned back against the wall and stared toward the streetlights, worrying his lip with anxieties that he often ignored  The last thing he wanted to do was be hasty. Even if Morty was passed out on the ground, it could easily be chalked up to drunk clumsiness. Intervening before he could properly gauge the situation, assuming immediately that it was something more sinister, would only serve to get him in more trouble with his already hostile grandson. He just had to play it cool, wait to see what Morty's friend was going to do, only take charge of the situation if he knew for certain that Morty was in some kind of danger.  
At least, that was his philosophy before he heard the distinct sound of not one zipper being pulled down, but two.  
His head snapped back with a speed that he was almost surprised didn't give him whiplash, already on the defensive before he could even register what he feared to be true.  
Dylan was...  
And Morty was...  
He couldn't seem to properly wrap his mind around it. It felt as if he were watching from the inside out, his body frozen for a mere second before a boiling rage clenched his muscles and he stepped into clear view. He knew he was speaking but the sound didn't quite seem to reach his ears.  
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" His mouth felt hot and metallic with the words.  
Dylan immediately jumped back in order to feign innocence, but it took a fourth of a second for Rick to see that his pants were undone.  
He was going to lose it. He could feel it in his bones.  
"He's out cold," Rick growled, taking a deliberate step forward, and then another. "He's out cold and-and you were gonna..."  
"No, no, I swear!" Dylan cried, holding up his hands in vindication. "I wouldn't--"  
The sudden connection of Rick's fist with the younger man's jaw cut him off before he could offer any excuses.  
The rational part of him thought that maybe he should stop there, knew that if he didn't harness the wrath inside of him that he might not be able to stop, might not be able to tell how much damage he did or how many more blows he could land before he killed the guy. If he couldn't hold himself back, there was a strong possibility that he'd end up taking another life without even knowing it.  
But he didn't care.  
He didn't care if there was a possibility that Morty could wake up halfway through and see Rick pummeling his boyfriend, or that if the kid died Morty would never forgive him. Morty's misguided opinion and Rick's sense of justice, his blind hatred, were unbalanced scales. He'd be damned if he'd ever let scum like this get away with hurting Morty, not after what he'd already been through. Rick had made a vow to protect Morty from those types of people no matter what. If that meant beating the shit out of a boy that the kid obviously trusted, then damned if he didn't.  
He was almost positive that he'd broken two fingers by the fifth or sixth blow, and his knuckles were bloody with what surely had to be a grotesque mixture of his own injuries and Dylan's.  
The pain of that began to overwhelm him more than the anger, and by the time D's face had been reduced to a pulp, Rick found that he could no longer continue without entirely destroying his own hand. He fell back onto the concrete, trying to control his rapid breathing, and let a humorless laugh, rearing on deranged, bubble from his lips at the absurdity of his own situation.  
Morty was going to hate him when he found out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha! It's been less than a month! I can do anything I put my mind to!  
> Okay, maybe that's exaggerating a little, but...I still feel pretty victorious right now.  
> So hello and welcome to end of chapter four! Some pretty intense shit happened this time around. The angst train is only going to keep on rolling from here. *Choo Choo*  
> I hope you enjoyed! I left it on a *wee* bit of a cliffhanger, so I hope you'll come back for more. See you in Chapter 5!


	5. Best

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty visits Dylan in the hospital. Rick thinks about what's best for his grandson, but isn't sure how to convey his feelings without jeopardizing his values.

Hospitals make Morty feel sick.  
He feels even worse knowing what lies inside, the ill and the dying and the born and among them, his boyfriend, who's face is so battered that it's almost unrecognizable.  
The moment he sees him it's as if all of his ribs have been broken and set wrong, like he can't breathe and his chest is constricting so painfully that his lungs are deflating faster than he can fill them with air.  
He wants to cry, to scream, to demand answers, but he knows he doesn't need them. He knows exactly who was at the hands of Dylan's attack, and, more than food or water or air, he wants revenge.  
And even if it takes the rest of his life, he's going to get it one way or another.  
Morty isn't sure what to say when D opens his eyes. He's always followed his lead, and now that that powerful look in his eyes has been diminished to a puffy squint, marred by deeps cuts and large bruises, he doesn't know how to act on his accord. Drugs no longer seem to be the only thing that he's dependent on.  
"D?" He murmurs, tracing his fingertips over the IV in his lover's hand with practiced fragility. "How are you feeling?"  
Dylan tries to laugh, but the sound comes out choked and dies off, leaving a deathly silence hanging in the air before he finds the words he wants to say. "I-I'm gonna..." His chest rises heavily and falls, his eyes cast toward the ceiling. "I'm gonna kill that fucking guy, Morty. Even if...if you ask me not to."  
The world stops spinning for a moment, not because Morty is scared, or because he's trying to process what Dylan is saying, but because he knows that he's serious and, furthermore, has the means to do it.  
Rick may be a genius, but one can only take so many bullets before that genius no longer does them any good.  
And it's a strange thought, really, the idea of Rick being dead.  
It's not as if Morty hasn't thought of it before. One way or another, at some point in this long and treacherous life of his, Rick is going to die. It's a cold and undeniable fact that he accepted long ago, before he'd even found it in himself to hate the man for all that he'd done. It was one he was forced to face again after Rick had turned himself in.  
But the idea of him being gone so soon, no matter how much he detests him, is alien. Rick has always seemed invincible to him, a god among men, untouchable to all forms of sudden peril. To have such a powerful life cut short by someone like Dylan seems laughable at best.  
And yet it's still there, in the back of his throat like a bad taste, the threat of suddenly not having Rick there to hate, and he really isn't sure how to feel about it.  
"Dylan..." He whispers, his voice near inaudible. "Y-You can't just-just k-kill someone, y'know? What i-if you got caught or-or--"  
"I won't get caught."  
Morty shakes his head nervously. There's no way he's going to believe that; Dylan is much too careless. "Yeah? How?"  
"Because you're going to help me, Morty. You're going to help me kill your grandfather because I hate him just as much as you do," Dylan explains casually, his hand fluttering underneath Morty's skinny fingers.  
The words are almost insulting. "No, D," Morty huffs, shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "You don't."  
"Look at my fucking face, _Morty_ ," Dylan hisses, emphasizing his name like a bad word. It feels so reminiscent of Rick that Morty has to stifle a laugh. There's no escaping it.  
"That's physical, D, it's nothing like--"  
"Oh, please save me the fucking philosophical crybaby speech, Morty," Dylan interrupts, clearly exasperated. "You always talk such a big game but, as usual, you're unwilling to deliver. If he hurt your feelings so bad you shouldn't have a problem with killing him, right?"  
"Dylan..."  
"If you hate him more than I do you should prove it." He trains one bloody eye on Morty, curling the corner of his lip in the best smirk that he can manage with his injuries. "That is...unless you're a liar? Guess that would make you a lot like him--"  
Morty shoves up from his chair so hard that it falls backwards and crashes into a dormant piece of equipment with a loud bang, causing the both of them to jump.  
"You don't know a-a-a fucking thing about him," he insists, his glare deadly.  
"No? Only what you've told me, right? When you're shooting up in the backseat of my car and crying about how he left you and your family, or about how he always tore you down and made you feel fucking stupid, or how you gotta numb yourself to forget all the people you've fucked over just be around him? Just those things, right?"  
"You think killing him would-would make any of that better? I-If I kill him, Dylan, I-I-I become everything th-that he embodies. How do you-you not _see_ that?" He demands, feeling the slip of a frustrated tear travel down his cheek.  
"Everything okay in here?" A nurse chimes from the doorway.  
A deep blush roots itself in Morty's cheeks. "Yeah," he reassures, casually picking up the chair from the floor and positioning it neatly by Dylan's bedside. "I was just leaving."  
"Well then Mr. Castelda, looks like it's time to change your bandages."  
Dylan groans audibly above the heart monitor, shrugging off the sheets tucked under his shoulders. "Fine, let me take a piss first." Morty offers his hand to help him up but is shrugged off without even a glance.  
"Your IV," the nurse warns as D stands too quickly, tugging his tubing.  
"Bite me." Dylan turns back to glare at his boyfriend, who shuffles awkwardly at the foot of the bed. "Morty," he cautions, cocking his head to the side. "This isn't over."  
Morty purses his lips and nods. "W-Whatever you say, D." His heart feels heavy with a strange combination of grief and fear.  
"And cover up that black eye; people are gonna ask questions."  
Morty raises his hand to the tender skin, wincing at a pain that he had somehow missed. "Uh, o-okay," he murmurs quietly, quickly shrugging past the nurse to find the nearest bathroom, each footfall feeling heavier the last.  
A mirror. How had he not thought to look in a mirror?  
"Oh god," he whispers, catching sight of himself above the sinks as he stumbles past the men's restroom door. He had been in such a rush to get to Dylan that he hadn't even noticed.  
And suddenly it rushes back to him, the moment leading up to that insufferable pain that had careened through his skull the night before, turned his memories into a lethargic black.  
The last thing he remembers isn't the pain.  
It's an image of Dylan's closed fist.  
☆  
The first time Rick ran away from home was at the young age of thirteen.  
He still remembers it clear as day, the moment that set the theme for his entire life up until now, gave him the one solution that could never entirely fail him.  
It had been another one of those nights.  
His parents were fighting, his dad was shitface drunk, his mom was in the wrong place at the wrong time, as she usually tended to be. It was always distinct, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the sharp smack that would resound through the hallway and find it's way to Rick's door.  
She had always encouraged him not to interject, but as he grew older, wiser, stronger, he found the impulse grow harder and harder to push away. He was tired of his dad hitting her around, tired of her making excuses for him, tired of feeling helpless in his will to stop him.  
The result of that notion earned him a black eye and a cracked rib.  
A part of him expected her to finally put her foot down, to tell his dad that she drew the line at him hitting their son, that enough was enough and she was going to leave him, finally take Rick away with her like he knew they both wanted, but in the end she only scolded him for getting in his old man's way.  
The phrase 'You can lead a horse to water' came to mind as he slipped out of his bedroom window and into the cool summer air.  
He didn't come back for a week.  
She was furious of course, absolutely mad with worry, and he did feel bad for tacking onto her mounting pile of troubles, but in that one week he had learned something more valuable than his concern for his mother's already deteriorating mental stability: there was nothing more liberating than the ability to pick up and leave at whim.  
It was the first time he truly felt that, in the grand scheme of things, none of his day to day problems really mattered. The idea that he could leave at any time, start over new anywhere he wanted, leave everything that scared and pained him indefinitely in the past, freed him in a way that, even now, no drugs or alcohol ever could.  
And really, the entire timeline of his life could be worked out that way.  
When his mom died and left him behind with his son of a bitch father, dying of liver failure and yet insistent still on drinking a fifth a day, he left.  
When his marriage with Dianne started to fall apart, and he was torn between sparing his daughter from the selfish alcoholic he knew he was becoming and giving her the family life she deserved, one that he might not even be able to give her in the first place, he left.  
And when he reunited with her and her new family years later, only to become a burden that he knew was unfair to make her and her children bear, he left again.  
But now? He can't leave now, and if he's being honest with himself, the thought is killing him.  
He hates seeing Morty this way, hates knowing that it's his fault, and hell, even if he _can_ find a way to get the kid to trust him again, to put him back on the right path, a part of him, a large part, if he's being honest, thinks that he'd probably still be better off without Rick around to put him in any more danger. After all, if it weren't for Rick, he wouldn't _be_ in this position in the first place. He'd probably still be in school, drooling over some girl with a big rack, never any the wiser of life beyond earth and all of the horrors that that knowledge brought with it.  
There are very few moments when Rick allows his hate for himself to truly run it's course. That lack of control usually ends in stupid mistakes, failed suicide attempts and hidden cuts that go without stitches.  
And regrets, of course. Regrets not that he tried to kill himself again, or that he almost shredded through an artery in a drunken attempt to watch himself bleed out, but rather that he didn't finish the job. For a selfish bastard, he's at least smart enough to know that the multiverse would be better off without him...or rather, one of him, at least.  
It was that thought that always stopped him. As if a world with one less Rick in it could purge that disease from the galaxy. No. Ricks across every conceivable dimension would always be there to pick up for the lack of selfish deeds in his absence. As if one Rick less would ever make a difference.  
"Yeah," he chuckles bitterly, torso hunched over the steering wheel as he floods his veins with the remnants of a bottle of Everclear. "You're a-a-a regular Christfigure."  
He knows he has to go back to Morty, and the thought terrifies him. The irony of it all isn't lost on him. To be the reason Morty is an addict and yet the only one who can save him feels like another attempt at the universe's sense of justice against his wrongdoings, another cosmic joke at his expense. And, well, he supposes he deserves it. He just wishes that this type of payment didn't involve his grandson, who, for the most part, remains completely innocent. If anything, he had just been eager to please his grandfather, willing to cement the familial affection he so often went without by any means necessary. Rick had taken advantage of that, too, and yet it seemed as if the trials and tribulations they were facing were, like so many other things between them, a package deal. Rick and Morty a hundred years. Literally.  
☆  
Morty has only been in Rick's room one time before this. He casts a glance out the small window through the blinds, where rain beats down vigorously onto the earth with a viciousness that feels familiar.  
He doesn't know what he's looking for, but then again, he's not really sure that anyone ever does. It's a comforting thought really, even for someone who's experienced so much compared to everyone around him. No matter how important or miniscule, no one really has a fucking clue what they're doing. It's one of the only securities he carries with him.  
The room smells a little musty, probably a result of the old cot that his dad dragged down from the attic when Rick moved in. He doesn't remember it being so bad the last time he was in here though. Maybe in Rick's absence his bedroom has become like the attic, a place to store things that no one can find use for anymore. He sighs. Or maybe it's just like him: full of memories and feelings that no longer serve a purpose, a ghost of the past.  
"Am I useless too?" He whispers, scrawny fingers tracing blueprints on the walls. He wishes he knew what they meant, as if Rick's true intentions could be worked out through equations and sketches connected by strings. Is he a part of the master plan?  
Sometimes he hopes so.  
The truth is, he's close to showing Rick some semblance of humanity and it scares him. He's worried that he's giving in too easy, willing to drop his reservations at the first sign of kindness.  
He knows Rick isn't all bad. He's known that since they met, and if he leaves again he'll know it still. Sure, he's selfish, and mean, and cynical, but underneath all of that, underneath the impenetrable wall that he builds around himself to keep anyone from getting too close and opening his wounds, he cares. If there's one thing that Morty's ever been certain about when it comes to Rick, it's that.  
But he doesn't want that to be enough to let him forgive Rick for leaving. He's watched his mom fall into the same cycle again and again, allowing Rick to take another piece of her every time he can't exceed her expectations. Perhaps she's set herself up for an eternity of failure by setting the bar too high, by expecting him to stay in one place for too long. Unlike her son, she still has yet to learn that the root of heartbreak is hope. That's not a routine that Morty can afford to let himself become accustomed to.  
The door clicks behind him, pulling him from his thoughts, and the shadowy outline against the hallway light is telling. No one else that lives here can make staggering look so graceful.  
"Wh-What are you doing in here?" Rick slurs, leaning his weight again the doorway. He doesn't sound angry, at least.  
"I..." Morty bites his lip. "I don't know."  
Rick nods at the phone in Morty's hand, his expression barely readable in the dim lighting that surrounds them. "How's your friend?"  
Morty rubs the back of his neck, chuckles a little in disbelief. This feels too casual. This feels exactly like taking two steps backwards. "Y-You fucked him up pretty bad, Rick."  
The old man takes a swig from his flask and tucks it neatly back into his pocket. "I did what I had to do." There's no regret in his voice, even with the imminent threat of another argument. Let Morty reem him out for doing the right thing. At least he's drunk this time.  
"I know," Morty murmurs, catching him off guard. "He uh..." He swallows hard. "He tried, didn't he?"  
There's no need to explain. "Yeah," Rick admits, running a hand through his wild hair. "I just, y-y'know, I thought about that bet we had, that adventure--"  
"Don't," Morty interrupts, hand raised to stop him. He doesn't want to remember. It's taken him this long just to forget.  
Rick whispers, like he's afraid to disturb Morty's fragile subconscious. "I couldn't just--I wasn't going to-to let it happen again, Morty. Not with your boyfriend o-or anyone else."  
Morty lets out a shaky breath and sits on the edge of the cot. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know if he should say anything at all. "This doesn't change anything," he blurts out finally, balling the comforter in his fists. He won't look at Rick. Rick isn't looking at him anyways.  
"You think I-I-I did it because I thought you'd fucking forgive me?" Rick asks, and it's the hurt in his voice that takes Morty by surprise this time. "It wasn't a fucking trade, Morty. I was trying to-to do the right thing."  
"Why do you..." Morty shakes his head, practically tears the blanket in frustration. "Why do you act like you-you ever give me anything to work with? One minute you're being a-a-a self-centered asshole and the next you're acting like you give a good-good god damn about me. How do I-I catch up?"  
And before he can even blink he finds his back against the wall at the end of the cot, feet dangling a few inches off the floor as he's forced to stare face to face with Rick. He smells like alcohol. He smells like adrenaline and anger and self-loathing, if those things have scents. But his eyes are saying something important that turns the blood in Morty's veins to ice.  
"You think I'm just acting, _Morty_? Th-Th-That old Grandpa Rick is putting on a-a fucking show for shits and giggles? That I only pretend to care because--what--because it conveniences me? That's what you think?" Rick demands, hand tightly balled in the thin material of Morty's shirt. "You don't know shit," he hisses assuredly. "Maybe I-I'm a mean fucking drunk, but I'm not a monster, Morty." He pauses, takes in a ragged breath, feels like he's choking on the words. "I'm not."  
"Rick..." Morty mumbles, reaching out a tentative hand to drag a finger across his cheek. "Are you...you're crying?"  
"No," Rick scrambles, releasing his death grip on Morty.  
"But--"  
"Just get the fuck out."  
"You're gonna push me away now?" Morty asks furiously, crossing his arms tight over his chest to keep himself pieced together. How many times are they going to get get to this point only to have Rick leave, physically or otherwise?  
"Morty," Rick warns, turning his back so that he won't have to face his grandson, to allow him to see him be weak. Rick Sanchez doesn't do weak. "I-If you know what's good for you, just go."  
"Unbelievable," Morty laughs. "Good old Rick, w-with his irony and his bullshit and-and his tough guy exterior. Can't just-just stick to your guns, can you?"  
Rick opens his mouth to speak, but finds that no words escape. He's right. It's probably more rare to see him be wrong at this point, at least when it comes to the subject of his grandfather.  
"Have a good night," Morty huffs before leaving Rick to stand alone in the dark, the rain thrashing against the roof the only sound to mask the weight of silence.  
"I will," he whispers, though Morty has long since left the room. He's just lying to himself, and next to leaving...it's what he does best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm baaaack. Did ya miss me? (It's okay, you don't have to lie.)  
> Chapter 5! Wow! It feels like I was eagerly typing out the first chapter just yesterday and now we're here! I'm so glad to be receiving all the lovely feedback and I'm so so glad you guys enjoy the story because, boy howdy, you're in for a ride! I hope I've been keeping to an almost regular update schedule but I truthfully haven't been paying attention. Don't skin me alive if you think I made you wait too long! I'm sorry!  
> Anyways, let me know what you think if you already haven't, or heck, even if you have. Kind words are so encouraging!  
> Thanks for reading! ♡


	6. Matter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty is forced to spend his birthday hanging out with Rick. Things, of course, don't go as planned.

Days pass. Morty spends most of them high. He spends most of them alone.  
He hasn't exactly been avoiding Rick, but he hasn't really been making an effort to run into him either. On the occasions when they do cross each other's paths, they exchange a few words, brief chats about general nothingness. He can appreciate the fact that Rick doesn't badger him about being sober when it's clear that he isn't. Perhaps it's because he doesn't appear to be generally abstemious himself.  
It's not until dinner the following week that either of them pay attention to things that don't involve their own anger and self-loathing. Beth clears her throat and eyes Summer from across the table before turning to stare at her father and son, who both seem to be in entirely different worlds. "Dad, I think you should take Morty out for his birthday."  
Morty drops his fork and scrambles to pick it up.  
"Honey," Rick begins, folding his hands neatly on the table. "I think he'd probably prefer to-to spend it with his friends, don't you?"  
"No," Beth deadpans. "Actually, let me rephrase. Dad, you're going to take Morty out for his birthday and I'm not going to listen to either of you carry on about it, okay? Whatever issue you two are having with each other is going to get resolved because if I'm being honest, you both need the stability and I'm sick of watching you guys mope around like two teenage girls who just had an argument."  
"Mom, seriously, I--"  
"This is non-negotiable Morty. You two are going to go out for your birthday and you're not going to fight or ignore each other or get trashed or you'll have to answer to me, got it?"  
Morty sighs and crosses his arms over his chest dismissively. He hopes, by some miracle, perhaps, that Rick will be able to talk her out of this before Saturday.  
☆  
Rick, not for the first time, ends up undeniably disappointing him.  
Morty is throwing a load of laundry into the washer in the garage, glad that the old man is nowhere in sight, when Rick comes stumbling through the door, flask in hand.  
"I-I don't think she's gonna budge, M-Morty," he announces. Morty's shoulder twitches.  
"Are you trying to-to tell me that a self-proclaimed genius can't figure out how to convince his daughter not to force family fun time on him and his grandson?"  
"My speciality is science, Morty, not--urp--communications."  
"That's funny," Morty retorts, reaching over the washer to grab detergent. "I thought your speciality was being a consistent asshole."  
Rick shrugs and throws himself into his chair. "Th-That's more of a-a-a personal record, Morty, not a speciality."  
"Well it's not like she's going to listen to me," Morty sighs.  
"Maybe that has something t-to do w-w-with the fact that you're always balls deep in drugs."  
Morty barks out a laugh and adjusts the dials in front of him. "I walked in on you snorting K-Lax on the kitchen counter yesterday when Mom was at work."  
"Alright so maybe we're both not very reliable people. N-No wonder she won't budge."  
Morty turns around as the washer thrums to life, resting his elbows on the lid. "I-I'll be blunt here. You're probably the last person I want to spend my birthday with."  
"I could think of ten people at least that would make that statement inaccurate."  
"Alright, shoot."  
Rick takes a swig from his flask. "Abradolph Lincler?"  
Morty shakes his head. "I'd take his ramblings about conflicting politics over the sounds of-of you burping easy."  
"Alright, h-how about regular old Hitler?"  
"I'm not Aryan so he'd probably kill me before w-we even-even got to go anywhere. Which really isn't that far off the mark from all the life-threatening situations you used to put me through on a-a-a regular day," Morty chuckles bitterly.  
Rick raises a puzzled brow. "W-We're fine right now, aren't we?"  
Morty rolls his eyes. "I'm just humoring you."  
"C-Come on, Morty, just admit that somewhere deep down y-you still wanna hang out with me."  
Morty scrubs a hand over his face, takes a few deep breaths. "Sure, Rick," he agrees, his voice mournful. "Maybe some naive fucking part of me wants to go back to the-the way things were. That doesn't mean anything is going to change. I-I'm smarter than that, contrary to popular belief."  
"What do you want me to say? Y-Y-You want me to tell you that I'm sorry I left?" Rick demands. This conversation feels too reminiscent of the many he's had in the past, with his own mother, with the mother of his child. He hates knowing that he's putting Morty through the same irreversible cycle, but at this point it's as much a part of Rick as his alcoholism or his biting sarcasm. And now he can't stop thinking that Morty sounds like Diane.  
"No," Morty says, crossing his arms over his chest. "Because I know that you aren't."  
"So how do I fix it?"  
"You don't," Morty murmurs.  
"Then how am I ever going to--"  
"You deal with it," Morty cuts in. "You deal w-with the consequences of your shit and stop expecting people to forgive you for things you-you don't regret. M-Maybe that's not fair, but neither was you leaving me when I-I needed you."  
Rick is halfway to some sort of response, not entirely sure what's going to come out of his own mouth, when Morty gathers his laundry basket from the floor and turns toward the door. "One in the afternoon on Saturday," he sighs. "Don't be late."  
It feels like progress.  
☆  
Rick is almost not late.  
He crawls out of bed at half past noon, slightly hungover, and takes a shower for maybe a little longer than he should. He's never been precise when it comes to time management, so when he finally manages to wrestle himself out of the bathroom, he only has ten minutes to get dressed and collect himself.  
Morty is already waiting downstairs on the couch, bouncing his leg nervously as he thinks of all the things that could possibly go wrong. His hair is combed back neatly, his jeans are ironed, and he's meticulously picked out his shirt, but he still finds nothing but time in front of him, more opportunities to worry about the day ahead. Unable to find more things to keep him busy while he waits, he's decided to just sit on the couch and let his anxieties eat at him a little. His eyes watch diligently as the minutes tick by on the clock. He worries his lip the closer the big hand reaches twelve, feels like he's sweating bullets when the dutiful little chime echoes through the living room, but Rick doesn't show.  
Morty doesn't let himself hope. He's never been one for luck, really, so the thought that Rick has changed his mind is one that he doesn't allow to manifest. Rick would be late for his own funeral if he could.  
He jumps at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, tries to relax his posture like he hasn't been consumed by his fears for the past twenty-five minutes.  
"W-Would you explode i-i-if you actually did something I asked you-you to for once?" He asks, sparing a glance back at Rick as he reaches the final step.  
"Listen, if you want me to-to be on time, Morty, you have to lie and tell me that you-you want me somewhere twenty minutes earlier than you actually do. Ten if you're feeling trustworthy."  
"They're going to deem the-the eighth wonder of the world your inability to show up on time to anything ever," Morty grumbles, pushing up from his seat on the couch. "A-Are you ready? Like, actually ready?"  
Rick rolls his eyes. "Would I be here if I wasn't?"  
"Is that a rhetorical question? Because I don't feel the same."  
"I-I'm surprised you feel anything at all," Rick comments, searching for the flask in his coat pocket as he heads toward the garage.  
"Har har. How long did it take you to come up with that one?" Morty asks, arms crossed as he follows behind his grandfather.  
"Probably a-a-a shorter time than you'd think. Have you seen my flask?"  
Morty cocks an eyebrow. "I thought Mom said no getting trashed."  
"Being trashed a-and being drunk are two--are very different things, Morty," Rick announces as he opens the door.  
"Leave it to you to find a-a loophole. Flask is on the table."  
"Sweet," Rick grins as Morty climbs into the passenger seat of the ship. The rumble of the garage door is a familiar sound that makes his stomach do little flips. That tension only increases when Rick opens the door and buckles in beside him.  
"Wh-Where are we going, anyways?" Morty asks, gripping the fabric of his jeans.  
Rick backs the ship out of the garage and lifts it into the air, too distracted to meet Morty's worried gaze. "What fun w-would it be if I told you?"  
"You're actually under the impression that this is-is going to be fun?" Morty scoffs, kicking his feet up on the dash. "We're only doing this b-because Mom is forcing us."  
"S-So, what, I'm supposed to be miserable the whole time? N-Not gonna happen." Rick tilts his head back to take a sip from his flask, eliciting an annoyed glance from Morty, who leans across the dash with his hand outstretched.  
"Y-You gonna at least share?"  
It takes a moment for Rick to register what he means.  
"Gee Morty," he starts as he pulls his lips off of the cold metal, his free hand drumming lightly on the steering wheel. "I don't really--not really sure if your mom and Summer would appreciate that. This is su-supposed to be some-some good--some quality bonding time, y'know? A-A-A real heart to heart."  
Morty looks around the ship theatrically, eyebrow raised. "Well, jeez, Rick, I-I don't really see them anywhere. Do you?"  
Rick's mouth pulls down at the corner. "Seriously, kid, i-i-it's probably not a good idea for me to--"  
"Do you think Mom would be happy i-if I told her you got-got sloshed for my birthday outing?" Morty wonders aloud, a hidden meaning to his words that's clearer than the glass of a window pane.  
"I liked the-the old Morty better," Rick grumbles, staring moodily out the windshield.  
"Yeah, w-well," Morty chuckles, plucking the flask from Rick's fingers and taking a practiced gulp. "You killed him."  
☆  
"The beach?" Morty asks, his brows drawn in confusion.  
"What ar-are--you're too good for the beach now?"  
"No," Morty starts, his lips pursed. "It's just...I-I don't know, I didn't peg you f-for a beach person."  
"This isn't just any beach," Rick grins, popping the door open and stepping out onto the sand. "Th-This--It's a beach on a-a planet where no life has developed yet."  
"Good, there will be no one around to hear me kill you," Morty jokes, ditching his shoes before joining Rick at the back of the ship.  
"Y-You can try, Morty, but I doubt you'll be able to go through with it." Rick pulls out a couple of towels and hands one to Morty while he digs around the trunk for a blanket. "Plus, y'know, I-I could totally kick your ass."  
"So why here?" Morty asks.  
Rick tucks the blanket under his arm and shuts the trunk. "Well, with your excellent track record of-of bitching me out every time you're in my general vicinity, I-I figured it'd be nicer to let you whine and carry on while we're, say, not in the middle of a Blips and Chitz. For me, that is."  
Morty mouth hangs open for a second as he registers what Rick's saying. "Are you kidding?"  
Rick walks further onto the beach to find a good spot for the blanket. "See? We've been here for, what, five minutes? You're already about to-to complain."  
"Maybe," Morty begins, flexing his fingers into fists. "I wouldn't fucking complain if-if you weren't such an inconceivable prick."  
"You're not going to be happy no matter what I do, Morty. I might as well m-make the most of it." Rick flattens the blanket down on the sand and sits, cradling his flask to his chest as he stares out at the horizon.  
"Whatever," Morty mumbles, glancing at the sun. It's a little hotter here than earth, and even in jeans and a t-shirt he's already beginning to sweat. It's a wonder how Rick can look so comfortable under all of that clothing. "Th-The water is safe to swim in, right?"  
"It's pretty similar to earth, so I-I would say go for it," Rick says as he ditches his jacket. Morty strips off his shirt, but hesitates at the jeans. Rick rolls his eyes.  
"Morty, I've seen you naked as-as the day you were born more times than I can count. I-It's only weird if you make it weird."  
"Well what about you?" Morty demands. "Aren't you hot?"  
"Getting there," Rick agrees, offering Morty his flask while he struggles out of his sweater. Morty knocks back some liquor and looks back down at his jeans. The thought of getting them soaked and then having to wear them all the way back home isn't a particularly pleasant one. And Rick _has_ seen him in much less. He screws the cap back on the flask and undoes his zipper.  
"Nice underwear," Rick snorts, shoving Morty lightly as he passes by to walk to the shoreline.  
"Wh-What's wronag with polka dots?" Morty grumbles, stepping out of his jeans.  
The water feels warm at his feet when he stands beside Rick.  
"You know, th-the last time I was at a-a beach was--" Rick cuts himself off and steps into the water.  
"Do you miss him?" Morty wonders aloud, stepping behind him. In all of his anger and frustration it's easy to forget that Rick has lost someone close to him.  
Rick runs a hand through his wild hair, takes in the endless water in front of him. "Yeah, M-Morty, but I try not to think about it."  
"It's uh..." Morty watches the ocean rush in past his calves. "It's not your fault, y'know."  
"That's what I keep-keep trying to tell myself, but..." Rick walks until he's submerged to his shoulders. He doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to hear the same run-of-the-mill advice he's been trying to feed himself for the past five months. He wishes he hadn't brought it up in the first place, but around Morty things just seem to slip. He wishes that that weren't the case either.  
"Look, we-we don't have to talk about it," Morty offers.  
"Good," Rick sighs, but it comes out meaner than he intended. He doesn't want to start something that he's too worn down to finish. He's tired of fighting with Morty over things that are too late to fix.  
A welcome silence passes between the two of them as they let the water carry them, two familiar vessels in unfamiliar waters. "Fifteen," Morty says. "Sometimes I didn't think I would even get to see this day."  
"E-Everything you say has too much weight to it," Rick chastises, turning around to splash his grandson. Morty grimaces and splashes him back.  
"Better than saying nothing." When he sticks out his tongue Rick hits him with another shock of salt water. "O-Oh god, Rick, ew!" He cries, punching Rick in the arm as he desperately tries to work the taste out of his mouth.  
"I-I'll do it every time you say something serious Morty, I-I-I swear," Rick threatens playfully, trying to catch Morty as he darts farther away.  
An hour passes, and between the teasing and the swimming and the talking Morty almost forgets that it's Rick he's with. In fact, it's not until they're sitting back on blanket, letting themselves dry in the unrelenting heat and finishing off the flask between the two of them that their strange balance is finally upset.  
Morty turns to face Rick, his eyes sort of sleepy as he asks, "Did-Did you think about me in prison? A-About how I-I might have felt?"  
Rick scrubs a hand over his face. "W-Why do we have to talk about this now?"  
"It's been bothering me."  
"Well, it's a-a stupid question. Of course I thought about you. D-Do you think I just-just turned myself in without thinking about th-the repercussions? I knew you were going to be mad."  
"Even though I told you I-I could handle it?"  
"I'm not an idiot, Morty."  
Morty runs his fingers through the sand beside him and gazes at the pale sky above. How many times had he looked up and hoped to see some sign of Rick returning? How many of those nights had he told himself that he was never coming back?  
"I couldn't have-have made you stay, could I have?"  
Rick seems to pause for a moment, and a grim expression crosses over his face. "No."  
Morty chuckles dryly. "Guess I knew."  
"You think y-you have me all figured out, Morty, b-but you don't," Rick tells him, clenching the edge of the blanket in his fist.  
Morty raises an eyebrow. "Don't I?"  
"You think I don't care."  
"You don't, Rick. Not really. And-And even if you did, i-it wouldn't mean that anything was going to-to-to change. You're always going to p-put yourself first."  
"I came back, didn't I?"  
Morty looks back over his shoulder with a strange expression. "Don't try to make it seem l-like you did that for me."  
"Enlighten me then," Rick hisses.  
"I-It's convenience, Rick. There's a-always a motive with you."  
"Tell me--then what was my fucking motive for saving you from that piece of-of shit boyfriend of your's?"  
"You--"  
"There wasn't one, Morty!" Rick cries. "Sure, I-I'm selfish, and I left, but that doesn't mean I don't give a-a shit about you! Y-You're so quick to dismiss anyone when they hurt you."  
Morty whirls around entirely, his eyes brimming with tears. "M-Maybe because someone hurting you i-i-is the first sign that they don't really care. B-Because if they did, they would think about how you felt."  
And then Rick can see the pattern, like the recurring themes in his own life. People have always let Morty down. His parents, his sister, his teachers, his classmates and now...him. The only person Morty thought he could trust. No wonder he's so angry.  
"Morty, I--"  
"It doesn't matter!" Morty insists, his shoulders shaking as he stands and heads for the ship.  
"Morty, seriously you don't have to--"  
"Rick," Morty interrupts, hiding his red-rimmed eyes as he glances at the the expanse of sand past the ship. "It doesn't matter."  
Rick brushes off his pants and stalks toward Morty, fully intending to talk some sense into him until Morty rushes toward him and shoves him up against the ship with a surprising amount of force for a boy so scrawny. Rick lets his hands go limp at his sides.  
"Listen, kid..."  
"Who can I trust?" Morty wonders angrily, wearing an expression that Rick has never seen before. "I have no one."  
"That isn't true."  
"Then who can I trust?" Morty interrogates, slamming his fist beside Rick's head. "You? Y-Y-You'll only leave me."  
"No, Morty. I won't," Rick reassures.  
Morty laughs, genuinely laughs like this is the funniest joke he's ever heard in his entire life. "I-If you can prove it--" He wheezes, wiping away a tear, "then I'll forgive you."  
"How am I supposed to prove it?" Rick demands.  
"Y-You're a smart guy, Rick. I'm sure you'll figure it out," Morty says as his laughter dies down.  
Rick glares at this emaciated kid that has him pinned to the side of the ship, falling apart at the seams and asking Rick to prove that he won't leave like it's the punchline to some strange joke. And he hurts for him, genuinely hurts, hurts the kind of hurt that's only reserved for lovers and best friends. He knows Morty won't believe him, but that's all the more reason to try.  
"I love you, Morty," he whispers, watches Morty's eyes glaze over like he's been brainwashed or maybe snorted some really good coke.  
And then Morty punches him.  
His knuckles line up directly with Rick's jaw like puzzle pieces, and for what he doesn't have in strength he makes up for in speed. He hits Rick so fast that the shock sort of stings, and Rick has to gape for a moment to make sure that he isn't in some sort of dream, or maybe a nightmare.  
"Fuck you," Morty spits venomously.  
And Rick wishes he could say that that was the worst of it.  
But once he lifts his head to stare back at his grandson, prepared to fling insults and shake some understanding into him, he finds that Morty is leaning in closer. At first he assumes that he's examining the damage, perhaps patting himself on the back for finally having the balls to stand up to his grandfather. But even that seems leagues closer to an ounce of normalcy than what actually happens.  
"Piece of shit," Morty murmurs harshly, grabbing Rick roughly by the shoulders.  
All cognitive thought seems to dissipate from both of them the moment their lips touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CLIFF HANGER BIIIITCHES!  
> Sorry, was that too aggressive? Here we *finally* are, the long awaited kiss that no one probably asked for but got anyways.  
> Oh man, I'm so excited to write the next chapter. You guys are in for a treat.  
> I know what you might be thinking. Isn't Rick saying he loves Morty ooc?  
> To which I reply, fuck you! Morty needs him! Rick isn't as soulless as he makes himself seem!  
> Anyways, I'm getting way too excited so I'm rambling. Leave feedback! Let me know what you think!


	7. Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick indulges Morty. Beth gives her son a gift that he feels he doesn't deserve.

Rick wants to ask why things are happening the way they are, wants to stop the world from spinning and pivoting in a downward spiral for a moment so he can grasp what's actually happening, but time stops for no one. Not even in moments like these.  
And he hates to admit it, hates to even let an inkling of his subconscious grasp onto the thought and cling to it needlessly like a separate life source that assures him that the end doesn't need to justify the means, but he feels it the moment Morty kisses him. Like a breaking dam, a swell of tension automatically releases, flooding out of him in the form of newfound aggression that Morty matches tenfold until they're clinging to each other, pausing only for breath, not asking questions or voicing concerns because the unseen forces driving them demand their full attention.  
Morty strains on his tiptoes and presses his tongue into Rick's mouth, both hating and adoring that he now knows what he tastes like, his needy hands grabbing for purchase against Rick's bare ribs as he presses him harder against the passenger door of the ship, hoping to bruise.  
Kissing Rick is different from kissing Dylan, gives Morty the intensity and adrenaline that he so often seeks out from other things. But, unlike Rick, he doesn't feel the relief of his cares being lifted. Instead he can only feel angry, angry that his sense of control in life doesn't come from drugs or skipping school or fucking around with his boyfriend, but instead from kissing his grandfather, from fervently pressing his body to his own and letting his frustrations do the talking for once. In this way he is finally taking charge, forcing Rick to indulge his impulses instead of the other way around. For an odd few minutes, they have effortlessly switched their places in the universe.  
Morty yanks the door behind them open and shoves Rick into the passenger seat, climbing into his lap without hesitation and adjusting them both as the door swings shut and they're faced with the prospect of sharing absolute space. Rick stares at Morty. Morty stares at Rick.  
"Are we--"  
"Don't say anything," Morty interrupts, burying his face into Rick's neck to leave gruesome teeth marks.  
"Morty..." Rick grabs Morty's waist with all intent of pushing him away until Morty grinds his hips downward to distract him, causing the older man to gasp in surprise. "Fuck, will-will you just wait?" He huffs.  
"Rick," Morty whispers seductively, leaning close to Rick's ear, his breath humming over the sensitive spots on his grandfather's skin. "Shut th-the fuck up, okay?" He grinds down again with a friction that causes Rick to blank for a few seconds. Morty's thighs twitch.  
Rick's skin tastes like sweat and ocean water and adrenaline and fear, and like so many other things, Morty is easily becoming addicted. His erection swells as he licks his way up Rick's jugular, his teeth grazing the thrumming pulse beneath him while his hips find a steady rhythm. He can't say that Rick is faring much better. Either by Morty's aggressive persuading or his own lack of self-control, he can't seem to pry his fingers from Morty's back, his waist, his chest. His touch feels like electricity in Morty's veins, leaves his skin tingling with sensations that overwhelm his consciousness until he's running on sheer vexation and lust alone. He wants to destroy Rick. He wants to be destroyed by him until there's nothing left, like two black holes consuming each other until they've ripped open space and time itself and eradicated that too.  
Morty pops open the button of Rick's pants with practiced ease. His fingers fumble at the zipper, skip over the fabric to pull it down over his hips until he's finally free, open to Morty's persuading hands and erratic touch. Rick sighs, pushes Morty back lightly against the dash and ruts up against him, slow and methodical in a way that makes Morty whine.  
"Fuck," he cries helplessly, grabbing one of Rick's hands to place it over his chest. Rick runs gentle fingers over Morty's nipples, teasing lightly until they're hard to the touch. Morty's cheeks turn pink.  
"Y-You like it?" Rick grins. Morty glares.  
"Ahh, sh-shut up, idiot."  
"Why, Morty?" Rick whispers, leaning close until his teeth are grazing Morty's earlobe. With Rick crowded so close, Morty can't see him endlessly abusing his chest, only feel. He jumps at the unmistakable sensation of his nipple being flicked over and over until it ranges near painful. "D-Don't act like you-you aren't getting off on the fact th-that it's me who's touching you."  
Morty grips his jaw and forces Rick to look him in the eye. "Don't flatter yourself."  
"No?" Rick asks, picking up his pace while the hand resting on Morty's hip snakes down to grip his ass. "Guess we'll see."  
Morty begins to sweat. It's not entirely comfortable here in the ship, wedged in between the hard material of the dash and Rick's body, which, temperature wise, is running unusually high. He squirms awkwardly in his minimal amount of clothing, albeit being a thin pair of boxer briefs. The friction isn't exactly helping either.  
"Impatient?" Rick teases, eyes alight with something sinister and cocky. Morty rolls his eyes.  
"Just hot." He grips the back of Rick's shoulders with an intensity that surprises even himself and brushes his lips against Rick's again, tongue dragging underneath Rick's lower as if to persuade. "Take my-my underwear off." A demand, not a request. Morty still wants to make sure that he's the one sitting in the driver's seat.  
Rick hesitates.  
" _Rick_ ," Morty stresses, fingernails digging into Rick's shoulder blades. "Y-You're thinking too much again."  
Rick withdraws both of his hands to rest them carefully on Morty's stomach, his expression troubled. "Tell me something."  
Morty glowers but nods his head once in recognition, his body heating with impatience.  
"Are you--I mean, y-you're not a virgin, are you?"  
Morty is silent, turning his head to stare out the window at the rising tide.  
This time, it's Rick's turn to demand.  
"Morty."  
"S-S-So what?" He stammers broodingly. "Got a-a problem?"  
Rick shakes his head. "I-I can't be your first, Morty, I--"  
"It doesn't me-mean anything," Morty insists, retrieving his arms from Rick's neck. "Th-This whole thing, Rick, i-it's already fucked up. Whether or-or not I'm still a virgin is-is sort of a moot point now."  
"Morty--"  
" _Rick_. It's just sex...a-and I want to-to do it with you, okay? S-S-So stop worrying a-about it so much. You're kind of killing the mood."  
"Wanna call me a piece of shit again?"  
"That's the spirit," Morty smirks, draping himself across Rick to pat his cheek approvingly.  
"I don't understand you sometimes, I-I swear."  
"I'm not asking you to understand me, Rick. I'm a-asking you to f-f-fuck me."  
Rick scoffs. "Such conviction."  
Morty slips a thumb under the band of his own underwear to steer Rick back on track. "I'm waiting."  
"Fuck, fine," Rick sighs, swatting Morty's hand away to replace it with his own. He slips his palms over Morty's ass and pulls his underwear down so Morty can shimmy out of it, grasping onto the backseat as Rick yanks the stretchy fabric over his ankles. He gasps as Rick nips at the taut skin of his collarbone, building up his courage until he finally leans back against the dash once more and and reveals himself, his expression unsure.  
Rick looks at Morty in all of his naked glory, really looks at him from the top of his head to tips of his toes, and all he can manage to say once he's finished is, "Oh."  
Morty rubs his arm subconsciously to shield himself, can feel the blood rush up to his ears to sit in pink hues.  
"Something wrong?" He asks, but it comes out wrong, too defensive.  
"No, I guess I just didn't e-expect you to look so..."  
"Skinny?" Morty huffs.  
"Yeah."  
"I forget to eat."  
Rick wraps his fingers around the base of Morty's thigh until they almost touch and suddenly Morty feels small, smaller than he's ever felt in his entire life. "Still...y-you look good."  
"You don't ha-have to reassure me," Morty mumbles.  
Rick moves his hand a few inches until he's brushing the length of Morty's dick, just light enough to tease. Morty shivers.  
"I-Is this how people reassure each other?"  
"Who--ahh--who knows?" Morty gasps. "I can't speak for everyone."  
Rick snorts and continues his endeavor to drive Morty crazy as he speaks. "Two businessmen are sitting in a-a-a conference room before a meeting. The-The first businessman says to the other, 'Do y-you think my presentation is really okay?' 'Absolutely it's-it's great,' the second businessman replies. He proceeds to unzip the-the first one's pants and suck him off. 'Thanks, that-that really makes me feel reassured,' the first one says."  
"Y-You have this really bad habit of-of opening your mouth at the worst possible times," Morty groans.  
"Sorry, d-do you want me to whisper sweet nothings instead?"  
Morty grips Rick behind the ear and bucks up into his hand, hoping to effectively placate him. "Maybe just stop talking."  
"You're the boss," Rick grins. The confirmation feels nice. Not as nice as the barely-there hand job that Rick is bestowing upon his teenage body, of course, but nice just the same.  
They gasp each other's air for a few moments, kiss like they're never going to kiss again, let the moment sink it's hooks in their skin until Morty forgets where he is, forgets everything around him that doesn't taste or smell or feel like Rick.  
And Rick feels it too, feels the impending sense of excitement and adrenaline and release sitting inside of him like a balloon waiting to burst.  
But he thinks, maybe ironically, that he is thinking too much. And that's the problem. He can't stop thinking. He can't stop thinking about Summer's frail figure in the garage pleading with him to help Morty, or Beth's hopeful face at the dinner table as she asked him to take his grandson out for his birthday. He can't stop thinking that he's disappointing them.  
So when Morty makes a move to pull Rick's underwear down, his boney fingers clammy as they slip under the waistband, Rick pushes him away.  
"Morty," he says, but he doesn't have to say it. Morty knows.  
Morty slips easily into the driver's seat, sweaty and frustrated. Silence is the only thing filling the space between them.  
"Look--"  
"What is-is it that you want, Rick?" Morty demands. "Because it always feels like y-you're two steps ahead and I'm always the one scrambling to catch up."  
"What am I supposed to want? This?" Rick lays his head against the rest, his expression blank. "Am I supposed to want to-to-to take my grandson's virginity and not be--not feel guilty about it?"  
Morty snorts. "I feel like I-I should videotape this. The moment Rick finally-finally has a conscience."  
"Don't try to high road me here, Morty."  
"I can't tell you what to want, Rick."  
Rick scrubs a hand over his face. "What do _you_ want?"  
Morty chuckles kind of low, eyes trained on the rearview mirror. "I'm always trying to decide if-if I want you to disappear or come closer."  
"And right now?" Rick asks.  
"Both."  
"I don't think this is right for us, Morty. I-I-I mean, I just got back, a-all we've been doing is fighting, and suddenly you're trying to-to jump my bones. What am I supposed to do with that?"  
Morty glares at Rick as he leans across the dash, snatches his underwear from the floor. Rick's right, of course. Morty is the one being unclear about how he wants to treat Rick, but here he is, content to blame the old man for very same thing.  
He can't just say that, though, won't give Rick the satisfaction. "Maybe open your eyes and a-ask yourself how it feels for once."  
Rick's face screws up. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
"Y-You gotta big, smart brain, Rick. I'm sure you can figure it out." Morty wrestles his underwear on and opens the door, stepping out onto the blistering sand. He feels tired. He feels guilty. He feels like a hypocrite. Hadn't he always wanted to be the bigger person? Hadn't he always been the one who vowed to never stoop down to Rick's level?  
He remembers the conversation in the ship earlier, as he persuaded Rick to let him drink alongside him instead of watch him bitterly from the sidelines. Maybe that Morty really is dead.  
"You wanna go home?" Rick asks as he shuts the door behind him. Morty catches him pulling on his pants as he passes to collect the towels and blanket.  
"Yeah."  
Rick runs his free hand through his hair, takes a final glance at the rising tide before turning back to Morty. "Yeah, me too."  
☆  
It feels too heavy.  
That's all Morty can think about when he opens his eyes, blinks at the wall a few times in a daze.  
Not even the drugs he has on hand can make the feeling go away. It sits in his chest like a second heart, each beat pumping more self-loathing into his veins.  
Outside the door, Beth debates, wonders if it's okay to approach Morty. After all, it's no longer often that they sit in private and chat. If Morty has something to say to her he says it without being provoked.  
But this is different. This is, what she hopes, a step toward making progress. Rick coming back is going to do Morty good just like it's done her good; she can feel it.  
So she knocks.  
Morty stashes a pill bottle beneath his pillow and straightens out the bedsheets, his expression somber. "Yeah?"  
"Can I come in?"  
"Sure," he agrees, clearing his throat. Beth opens the door, shuts it quietly behind her as she eyes Morty up and down. "How are you feeling? You look kind of sick."  
"Just, uh, just tired, Mom," he fibs, rubbing his eyes.  
"Dad didn't run you ragged on some adventure, did he?" She takes a seat at the foot of the bed, maintaining her distance.  
"No, we just w-went to the beach." Morty rubs his arm nervously.  
"Oh, sounds like fun! Did you have a good time? Did everything go okay?"  
Beth is practically begging him for details. It makes Morty's stomach twist. "Yeah, we, uh, y'know, just swam and hung out for a little. It was nice."  
"Anything exciting happen?" She asks.  
Morty holds his breath for a split second, thinks about warm skin and feverish paces and demanding kisses. "No," he lies.  
"Well, I'm glad you had fun," Beth smiles, none the wiser of Morty and his escapades to conquer her father.  
She withdraws a small box from behind her back, a box that Morty somehow missed, or was maybe too high to pay any mind to. He glances at it knowingly, scrambling to find the proper expression to make.  
"It's nothing special," she promises, placing the gift in his waiting hands. He tears back at the paper carefully, trying his best to control the shaking in his hands.  
"A watch," he says in surprise, withdrawing the antique thing to examine it in the light.  
"My mom gave it to Dad for his birthday, but he never took it with him when he left. It was one of the only things I had to remind myself of him after my mom put away all of his things, but...I want you to have it."  
"Mom, I couldn't," Morty insists. In light of recent events, the gift almost seems inappropriate. Not that Beth would know anything about that.  
"Really, Morty. I know...I know he's an ass, and I can't say that he tries his best, because I know that he doesn't. Look, I know I can't ask you to forgive him, but...deep down, he loves this family. He loves you."  
"Yeah," Morty agrees, wiping at a tear that slips down his cheek like a thief in the night. Too stealthy, too fast for him to catch. "I know he does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoo, sorry for the wait mi amigos. This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but the ending felt fitting so I kept it where it was. I hope you liked the chapter, it got a little smutty there. I'm not very familiar with the art of writing porn so bear with me.  
> Anyways, thanks for reading! See you in Chapter Eight. ♡


	8. Ruin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick gives in.

Rick can't stop his mouth from running ahead of his mind. "God damn it Diane," he snaps in the midst of one of Morty's tyrannical rants. Morty freezes.  
They had been in the garage, Rick tinkering with some project and Morty doing his laundry, the only fashion in which they seemed to meet privately anymore. Rick had said something to set Morty off and, as usual, Morty began to lay into him about all his perpetual flaws. He had been doing that a lot more since his birthday, and Rick, with his short fuse, was beginning to reach his wit's end.  
That much is clear now as they face each other, Morty gripping the laundry basket until his knuckles turn white, Rick wishing he could bite his tongue straight out of his mouth, both unsure of how to proceed.  
"What?" Morty says, his tone clipped.  
"Look, just, forget it--"  
"No," he cuts in, the sound of the basket hitting the concrete sharp as he stalks toward Rick and grabs him by the lapels of his jacket. "I'm not her."  
"I know, Morty, it just slipped, okay?" Rick explains, hands gently prying at Morty's wrists. "I didn't mean it."  
Morty refuses to budge. "She was a coward."  
"What? Morty--"  
"You think I-I don't know?" Morty demands, looking wired. Rick stares at him, or maybe into him. Morty is never sure anymore.  
"Are you high?" Rick asks to no avail. It seems Morty is determined to ignore him.  
"I know all about her," Morty continues. "All the fighting and the nagging and-and the e-empty threats...all the times she let y-you come back." He shakes his head in disgust, never breaking his gaze from Rick's ashen face. "Not me, Rick. I'm going to hold you accountable. I'm not like Mom or-or Diane or anyone else that you've walked out on...because I-I know who you are." He pulls Rick in closer, until Rick can feel his breath on his ear. "And I'm not scared of you."  
"Jesus, Morty, wh-what did you take?"  
"Nothing," Morty lies, shoving away. He thinks it'd be easier to ask what he hasn't taken. Binging has been the only thing keeping his head above the water for the past two weeks. "Can you change my laundry over to the dryer when it's done?"  
"Why can't you do it?" Rick scoffs.  
"I'm going out."  
"Again? With who?" Rick demands.  
Morty rolls his eyes. "None of-of your business." Rick clenches his fists.  
"Do-Don't tell me it's that asshole, Morty. I'll beat some sense into y-you if I have to."  
Morty turns the dials on the washer and runs a shaking hand through his hair. He's too tired to lie, too tired to care about much of anything. He can't remember the last time he actually slept. His head is a mess. "We talked it out."  
"Talked it out? Are you fucking kidding me, Morty? H-H-He tried to rape you." He doesn't miss the flinch that that memory evokes.  
"Rick, if I-I stopped talking to everyone who ever hurt me I w-wouldn't _have_  anyone to talk to," Morty bites.  
"You're not going."  
Morty chuckles. "You gonna stop me?"  
"If I have to," Rick threatens. Morty only smiles sadly, retrieving his basket from the floor and glancing at the old man over his shoulder.  
"Or, I could t-tell Mom that you gave me a-a-a handy on my birthday...maybe I could even ham it up a bit. 'I-I told him no, Mom, but he wouldn't stop'," he imitates, clasping his hands together pathetically. "That is, y'know... _if I have to_."  
Rick raises a quizzical brow. "So you try to seduce me and-and somehow you're using that as leverage to threaten me?"  
"What mother is going to believe that her fifteen y-year old son is actually interested in fucking his grandpa?" Morty smirks.  
"This isn't over," Rick promises as his grandson goes for the door.  
"Trust me, Rick. It hasn't even started."  
☆  
It's late into the night when Rick sneaks into Morty's room. He's never been one to believe in fairness, really, but Morty sneaking into his room seems like a justifiable reason to snoop...even if he knows it isn't.  
He doesn't bother switching on the light, doesn't want to bring attention to himself. He tells himself he's only going to take a quick look, just to make sure that Morty isn't in too much trouble, or maybe find enough evidence to convince himself that he isn't, even if it's a lie. Morty has been too erratic lately. It's not exactly good grounds for giving Rick the peace of mind he so desperately seeks out.  
He runs his finger tips over the bedsheets, glances at the posters on the wall with a wary sort of longing. His chest begins to feel tight, like an ache that just won't ease.  
He sighs. He doesn't want to think about the past, but Morty's room always evokes that feeling inside of him that he can't just shake, like maybe all the things Morty has said to him since he got back are right...like maybe he took away the last shred of innocence the kid had.  
He opens the nightstand before he can talk himself out of it and finds it blissfully empty, save for a bottle of lube and a half-empty pack of cigarettes. Those things are at least tolerable for most teenage boys to have. A part of him hopes that this is all he'll find.  
Morty hasn't given him much to hope for, though.  
He skirts around the places he knows probably hide things he doesn't want to see, thinks maybe he should just turn around and forget it, but eventually his curiosity gets the better of him.  
First is under the mattress. Morty's been known to hide things under there before, mostly nudey mags and weird trinkets from girl's he's had crushes on. It's with a sinking feeling as he lifts it up that he realizes that those things are gone. He tries to convince himself that he's not bothered by their absence, but he can't shake the feeling that those things were just a few of the small facets that made up the whole of his grandson. The whole thing seems too symbolic for his liking. Rick isn't the type to believe in things like symbolism.  
He opens the closet next but finds it empty as well, save for a few dress shirts and ties hung neatly on the rack. He resists the urge to grab them, to hold them close and take in their scent and pretend that he's holding Morty, the old Morty that would've laughed and playfully pushed him away and smiled at him with all the adoration he didn't deserve. Instead he busies his hands with retrieving his flask and taking long, practiced gulps before moving on to the dresser. Nothing turns up there either.  
And then he glances the desk out of the corner of his eye, tries to muster the courage to take the few steps toward it and open the drawers. If there's anything to hide in this room, he knows for sure that the desk is where it'll be. He's seen Morty stash things there before, walked in on him countless times shutting the drawers and looking flustered. In the past he never cared enough to look inside, figured that a fourteen year old boy with no life experience couldn't really be hiding anything of interest to him anyways.  
But things are different now.  
He stumbles drunkenly across the room and sits in the chair, flicks on the desk lamp and stares at the drawers as if waiting for them to open themselves. He outstretches his hand to the top drawer, presses his palm against the laminated wood and takes a deep breath.  
"Please be porn," he mumbles, eyes shutting tight as he pulls it open with a quick flick of his wrist.  
It is, in fact, not porn.  
Rick isn't exactly sure what kind of expression he should be making. His stomach feels like it's dropped ten stories below him and he's pretty sure his heart has skipped at least three beats.  
It's a stash that even a practiced addict could be jealous of.  
Rick sorts through baggies and pill bottles and tourniquets and pipes with careful hands, mind blanking like he's been asked to present an essay in front of his entire middle school class. He tries to make the connection between these things and Morty, his Morty, who he's seen experience and develop and grow, but he can't. It doesn't seem quite real to him. Morty is good. Morty is innocent. Morty is everything that Rick is not.  
Rick has ruined him.  
He picks up a needle and examines it in the light, feels that familiar pang in his chest that means he's either feeling too much or too little.  
And then it comes from behind him, small and demanding in the dark, the sound of a voice followed by the hushed closing of the door. "What are you doing?"  
Rick inhales a sharp breath and glances over his shoulder, not bothering to feign innocence. The needle sits heavy in his hand. "Confirming something," he responds, his voice empty.  
"You know, when you-you sneak into someone's room uninvited, you often end up s-seeing things you don't like," Morty says, edging close to stand behind Rick.  
"Morty--"  
"You don't have to say anything," Morty tells him, taking the needle from his hand. He seems more passive than Rick expected.  
"I-I don't even know what I'm supposed to say."  
"I don't think there's anything y-you could say that would make a difference," he admits.  
"I know that already," Rick sighs.  
Morty rolls the syringe between his hands and stares at it longingly, his face screwed up in a way that Rick can't quite read.  
"Unless," Morty begins, his eyes lighting up.  
"Unless?"  
Morty slings himself over Rick's shoulders from behind and waves the needle in front of him. "Unless you wanna get high together?"  
"Morty, are-are you fucking crazy?" Rick demands, shoving him off. Morty rolls his eyes.  
"Sorry, I-I forgot that you were abstinent. Health teachers across-across America are applauding you."  
"That's not the point." Rick insists, his glare icy.  
"What's the big deal? We already drank together. W-What's one more thing?"  
"Morty--"  
" _Rick_. Please get the idea out of your head that-that you're going to somehow 'save me'. That ship sailed a-a-a long time ago," he huffs, pushing his hair out of his eyes. "You telling me to-to not do drugs is like an atheist trying to turn another atheist to Christianity."  
Rick stares at the drawer for a few seconds and swallows the bitter truth. Once again, Morty is right. How is he going to preach to Morty about the dangers of addiction when he's already a half a bottle deep?  
"Okay," Rick says.  
Morty's eyebrows look like they're going to reach his hairline. "Okay? Really?"  
"Yeah," Rick agrees, turning around to face his grandson completely. "Okay."  
Morty grins and dances around Rick to the familiar drawer, sifting through his options before reaching out to Rick to grab his jaw like he did in the ship. He tries not to think about it. "You sure?"  
"Yeah," Rick nods. He's more concerned about forgetting all the awful shit churning inside of him than taking the moral high ground right now.  
Morty releases his grip and pulls the lamp toward the drawer to display it's contents in full view. "Pick your poison."  
Rick waves his hand passively and leans back in the chair. "You pick." He trains his eyes on the ceiling as Morty begins to place things on the table, not really paying attention until the unmistakable feeling of rubber wraps around his bicep.  
Morty chuckles kind of nervously. "Better than a belt, right? I got new ones."  
"Haven't done earth drugs in-in awhile," Rick says in passing, but his voice sounds void of emotion. It irks Morty.  
"At least pretend that-that you're excited or something," he smiles, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. He grabs the spoon and slithers into Rick's lap before the old man can stop him. "Hold this for me?"  
"Morty, I don't think we should be--"  
"It's just for a-a second," Morty says, wrapping Rick's fingers around the spoon. "I-I know you don't wanna fuck me or-or whatever." He leans back to grab the lighter, giving Rick a full view of his veins, exposed by the tourniquet above. Rick's only seen veins ravaged this badly two or three times before, back in his touring days. It makes him queasy.  
Morty adjusts himself as he holds the lighter under the spoon, the flame flickering in his eyes like Christmas lights. He looks about as excited as if it were Christmas.  
"'Kay," he says after awhile, pulling the syringe off the desk and filling it up a little. He looks unsure when he finally focuses back on Rick. "Y-You wanna go first?"  
"Sure," Rick agrees, holding out his arm for his grandson. Morty brings it closer to the light and finds a good vein, his expression solemn as he plunges the needle in without a second thought. It's not the first time he's shot someone else up, after all.  
It's not the first time he's seen Rick's blood, either. He purses his lips, gently presses on the plunger.  
"Why do I-I always let you talk me into these things?" Rick wonders aloud. Morty takes the needle out and begins to fill it up once more.  
"You-You said it yourself," he begins, his voice kind of far off. "You love me."  
"You don't actually believe that."  
"You're right. Any diseases I should know about?" He jests.  
"No. Please t-tell me you don't share needles with other people."  
"Nope...just you."  
Rick has to look away when Morty sticks the needle in his own arm. At least he can take solace in the fact that his emotions seem to be retreating in light of the buzz.  
"Maybe we should go to the garage," Morty suggests as he slides off of Rick's lap and begins putting things away. "Want a bandaid?"  
"Am I five?" Rick snorts.  
"I-I don't think five year olds shoot up heroin," Morty laughs. "Plus I'm all out of princess bandaids."  
"That's a-a shame" Rick says. "Let's go to the garage."  
"Alright, but-but keep your hands to yourself. Word on the street i-is that I'm tainted with virgin blood." Morty shuts the drawer and sweeps his hand to gesture Rick forward. They keep quiet as they pass by Summer's bedroom and down the stairs. Rick is too distracted to even feel bad for breaking his promise to her. He's sure he'll have enough time to feel like shit for his failures in the morning.  
The light in the garage feels blinding. Rick covers his eyes as he stumbles into the chair at the work bench, lost in thought. Morty takes the seat next to him and scoots it back to keep his distance, isn't entirely sure he can control himself if he doesn't. And then he begins to laugh loud enough to startle Rick out of his reverie.  
"What are we doing?" He asks, gripping the table for leverage as he tries to catch his breath in between fits of laughter.  
Rick grins and begins to chuckle right along with him. "I-I have no fucking idea."  
"This is so stupid," Morty giggles, gripping his ribs as if holding himself together. "I-I-I just shot you up."  
Rick gives Morty a funny look and nudges his foot. "Y-Yeah, you're a-a pretty bad influence on me."  
This causes Morty to go hysterical, and Rick has to admit, it's nice seeing him laugh, even if it's only been brought on by the high. He misses every inch of Morty's smile more than he cares to admit.  
"Shit," Morty smirks, his laughter finally dying down. "Shit, shit, shit. This never gets old."  
"That's sort of what drugs are all about," Rick points out, kicking his feet up on the table.  
Morty shrugs. "Guess so. Hey!" He lifts his hands in excitement, his expression like a child's. "We should play music. I-I've been listening to this band lately, they're really good. Hold on." He wrestles his phone from his pocket and begins to scroll through his playlist until he finds the song he's looking for. "Yeah, yeah, here it is. You-You gotta listen to this song. It made me think of you."  
"You think about me?" Rick teases. Morty waves him him off as the song begins to play.  
"Sure, whatever helps your ego," he offers, sticking out his tongue. The song weaves through the space between them. "Good, right?"  
"Yeah," Rick smiles. "Good."  
"Heard it the other day when I was going to--" Morty cuts himself off and stares down at his shoes. "Well, doesn't matter. Anyways, i-it made me think of that time that in the ship wh-when you were showing me all those songs that you liked."  
"You still think about that stuff?"  
"Can't erase memories," Morty shrugs. "Well, you can, but, y'know...not naturally at least."  
"Thought you hated me."  
"I don't like you," Morty lets on. "I-I think you're a selfish, cynical asshole. But that doesn't mean th-that we didn't have good times together. I-If I was someone like Mom, I would pretend that all we did was have good times together. If I was like Diane, I would pretend th-that they were all bad. But I'm not like either of them, Rick."  
Rick sighs as the song dies out, turns his full attention to his grandson. "I know."  
"No, you don't," Morty argues, pushing up from his chair to stand in front of Rick. "I'm not going to ever expect you to change, Rick. I know you suck."  
"Gee, thanks Morty," Rick says, voice trickling with sarcasm.  
"Really, Rick...isn't that really all y-you can ask of someone? To just see you for who you are? Not a hero, or-or a villain...just Rick."  
"Morty..." Rick starts, his head swimming with endorphins. "You're not as-as smart as you think you are."  
Morty sighs and puts his hands on Rick's shoulders. "No?"  
"No."  
"Then don't do anything," Morty smirks.  
Rick bites the inside of his cheek. He hasn't even noticed that another song has begun playing. He's too enraptured by Morty and his head is too muddled and he can barely think straight enough to breathe.  
"Okay," he whispers, but he's already leaning into Morty, falling into his trap.  
Morty grips his back hard when their lips touch, tries to reign himself in and think properly, but he knows how easy it is for him to be consumed by Rick. Once he starts it's almost impossible to stop.  
"Okay," he murmurs. "Okay, okay." Finally, painfully, he pushes Rick away and slinks back to his own chair. Rick can't seem to hide his confusion. Morty grins maliciously. "Sucks, right?"  
"Shit, maybe..." Rick inhales deep and tries to gain his bearings around the cloud of euphoria. "Maybe you are as smart as you think you are."  
"Trust me, Rick," Morty chuckles. "This is just the beginning."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yoo who would've thought I could write this shit in one day? Go me! I was super excited about this chapter so I hope you guys are too! Yay for drug use and manipulation!  
> Disclaimer: please don't do these things.  
> Anyways, thanks for reading! I always like feedback yadda yadda. See you in Chapter Nine! ♡


	9. Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty takes a trip down memory lane. Rick is faced with the prospect of a troubling bargain.

"What do you think happens when we die?" Morty asks, leaning over the balcony to peer at the street below. From this high up everything feels small.  
He can feel hands snaking up his sides, sinking into his ribs like boney vices. "Wanna find out?"  
Not for the first time in his life, he finds himself truly thinking about it. If he fell from this height and hit the ground...would everything stop? Would all the feelings pouring into that empty place inside of him simply cease to exist? What would be left of him besides a lifeless house of bones lying on the sidewalk in front of some hotel in Seattle?  
He's reminded of one of Rick's drunken rants, back at a time before everything felt like falling. They had been sitting in the ship, Rick talking animatedly as he drove and Morty with his elbow propped against the window, sort of dozing until Rick began to say things that felt too heavy to ignore. ' _Think about-about this shit, Morty. The time that we exist in the-the universe is such a-a small fraction that we technically don't-don't even matter. E-Everything we do, everything we worry about, all the little decisions we-we make on--urp--on a daily basis are literally so miniscule that they're almost not measurable in-in the scale of time. I-It doesn't matter if we destroy the planet or-or maintain it or make discoveries, Morty, b-because in a-a-a thousand years, maybe less, we'll all be dead. The universe won't preserve us, Morty. It'll keep-keep on going for eternity and tear us apart piece by piece. A-And we'll deserve it, M-Morty. We'll deserve it because we think we matter when we don't._ '  
"Nah," he sighs, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Doesn't matter anyways."  
☆  
 **4 months earlier**  
The room remained heavy, untouched and still, an eclectic shrine for memories both touching and terrifying. It, as far as Morty knew, had stayed exactly the same as it had since they last left it. No one had dared to touch it since, perhaps from fear of disturbing the very air that had once held his breath. The thought of entering carried the same feeling as breaking into a tomb. The living had no business entering that which was solely created for the dead.  
And maybe Rick wasn't dead. Maybe, somewhere galaxies and universes away, he was still breathing, still cracking jokes and killing innocents and destroying worlds.  
But it didn't matter, because he wasn't here. Here was an abstract to Rick, belonged in a past that he stashed in the very recesses of his mind. Here never mattered to Rick.  
So that's why, after lots of false hope and senseless dreaming, Morty was almost certain that he wasn't coming back. Like everyone else in Rick's life, he had been on the receiving end of the never ending cycle of abandonment. Maybe that was the problem with Rick being a genius. His mind was so full of knowledge that he never had time to feel sympathy for everyone he left behind. Morty had hoped it would be different for him.  
Morty was a gullible idiot.  
Manipulating people into trusting him was just another way for Rick to get what he wanted. In his entire life the people he met were just stepping stones to him, more fools that he could put beneath him so he could get to the top.  
Rick was standing on a sea of bodies.  
In the end, it was the sorrow over this revelation that led Morty out into the street that night.  
He had visited the bridge only one time before, a few months prior to Rick's arrival. It, like all bridges traversed by depressed young people, held within it's steel beems a promise, not of optimism or hope, but a way to cut the idea of time ahead a little shorter than perhaps intended by fate.  
He thought, perhaps ironically as he brought his hand along the railing, that without the cowardice taking refuge in his bones, most of his current turmoil could have easily been avoided. Had he taken the literal jump into the unknown, he would have never had the misfortune of meeting and aptly trusting Rick to do for him what Rick could absolutely not do: break his allegiance to his personal disbelief in permanence.  
And yet, as most in his situation do, Morty still hesitated, fingers reaching into that place where banister met infinite space.  
And then, like a guiding apparition, a voice came to him from the dark.  
"You know, you'll feel less guilty if you have someone push you. Allow me to volunteer my services."  
He turned quickly, hands braced open as if he were about to fall. Gone were the days where he reacted on the part of the offense, as if all muscle memory had escaped him in the past month alone.  
"What?" He asked dumbly.  
"Oh, sorry, were you not planning to jump?" The bodiless voice asked, shrouded by the lack of headlights on the deserted street.  
"I guess I was thinking about it."  
"Thinking and doing are two different things, my friend. I can't push a thinker. That's considered murder."  
"And it's not if I want to die?"  
"Think of it as a friend helping another friend," the stranger chuckled.  
Morty shuffled from one foot to the other. "I don't have any friends."  
"Then allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dylan, but my friends like to call me Dylan."  
Morty rose an unimpressed brow, though the judgment in his expression was lost under the thick array of clouds. "I-Is that supposed to be funny?"  
"I guess I was going for charming."  
"Well it wasn't charming or funny," Morty commented dryly.  
"I'm guessing you've hit that stage in life where not a lot of things are."  
"Would I be standing here if that weren't the case?"  
"Maybe you just like stand on bridges," retorted the mysterious adversary.  
"Look," Morty sighed, combing fingers through his windblown curls. "I didn't really come here to talk."  
"I don't think you really came here to act, either," Dylan argued as the clouds began to break apart. It reminded Morty of the fragility that all relationships carried. No matter how close, you were bound to drift. It had happened with his parents, had happened with Rick and himself. People weren't meant to stay together like clouds weren't meant to stay together. It was just the natural order of things.  
"Maybe not," Morty agreed, connecting the voice to it's proper host in the moonlight. Dylan was tall and lean, gorgeous in the same way that you would consider a sculpture gorgeous. If you looked closely you could see all the flaws, an elongated nose or a jawline that was perhaps too strong, but like a puzzle, piecing all of those things together created something that you simply couldn't look away from. Morty had never even considered that he could look at another boy in such a way.  
"I didn't catch your name."  
"I-It's Morty," he stammered, easily swayed by a pretty face. At least that hadn't changed.  
"Well Morty," Dylan grinned wolfishly, offering his hand for Morty to shake. "You may not believe me now, but today is your lucky day."  
☆  
Beth, while a loving and devoted mother, had not always bestowed upon her kids the physical affection that children so often need in the early stages of their lives. While not completely outlawed, things like hugs and kisses were not the norm for their family, and were saved only for those special cases of celebration or, more often since the arrival of a certain scientist, near death experiences. Morty thinks, perhaps, that this is the reason he so often seeks out these affections from those outside of the realm of what he considers immediate family. Rick had the pleasure, or perhaps the misfortune, depending on who's perspective you were viewing the situation from, of showing up late enough in Morty's life to not be considered in this particular category. Morty tries to convince himself that this is the reason he has so frequently lusted after Rick since his return.  
This explanation, aside from that of using Rick as an outlet for control just as Rick has used him, is the only viable one for Morty to consider without completely and utterly losing his shit.  
Lips pull away from lips, skin ceases to rub against skin. Morty snaps away from his reverie and tries to focus, with a rather disappointed and unimpressed expression, on his immediate surroundings. "Morty, are you okay? You look like you're about to go nuts."  
"I'm fine," he murmurs unconvincingly, his eyes glassy. God, maybe he is about to go nuts. He can feel threat of it creep up his spine, tries to shake out what begins to feel like a second being sharing the same muscles, the same bones.  
"You don't look fine."  
"Yeah," he sighs, trying to blink through the haze distorting his vision. He can't get rid of the urge to break, to destroy and eradicate those things in his path that are, unlike him, entirely whole. His mind begins to fixate on the mocking severity of his own internal tone, the way this thing inside him that is both him and not him throws unpleasant mental blockades in front of reality. It becomes hard to focus on the few pleasantries that Morty has left to think of.  
"Morty?"  
"Rick, j-just shut the fuck up for a-a-a second," he insists, rubbing the sides of his temples like he's trying to get rid of a particularly grueling headache.  
"Who's Rick?"  
Morty studies the face in front of him for the few seconds he can spare, but it's borrowed time. He's definitely going to lose it.  
"Oh," he murmurs, untangling himself from Dylan. "Right."  
"Who the fuck is Rick?" Dylan demands again, his glare unwavering.  
"Now isn't the best time," Morty warns.  
"The fuck it isn't."  
"Seriously, D, I'm--"  
But it's too late for explanations. Dylan is putting his hands back on Morty. More specifically, around his throat.  
Normally Morty would accept his fate, would allow Dylan to use him to get out whatever anger and jealousy is boiling inside of him, but, as Morty had so politely mentioned moments before he was being strangled, right now is not the best time for him to practice his typical norms.  
In fact, this situation is the perfect opportunity for that second being inside of him to make it's presence known.  
And that's exactly what happens.  
It feels like a blackout, really, a complete loss of all consciousness for the few seconds that Morty's body is overtaken and forced into action. It's like sleep, but more conscious, more aware. He can feels his muscles move, can hear a muted cry followed by the sounds of something (he's not quite sure what) breaking, but it's as if he's been forced back into that world made entirely of water...suspended indefinitely, unable to control his own release, drowning in anger he can't quite process.  
It's only when he's brought back to the world of the living that he can examine the actual damage. Suffice to say, it's not looking very good for him.  
"You just fucking stabbed me," Dylan says all monotone, like this is just a minor inconvenience to add to his day.  
"M-Maybe you should keep your fucking hands off me if you don't wanna get stabbed, then," he snaps, finally giving himself over to that other half. It doesn't seem like it'll take no for an answer anyways.  
"So now you got balls, huh? Looks like you and gramps got the same taste in victims."  
"Nah," Morty smirks, snatching his knife as he shoves up from the mattress. "We just know an asshole when we see one."  
☆  
**First Message**  
_"It's been four days, Morty. Four fucking days. I-I-I knew you were a fucking kid, but Jesus Christ. You-You can't just run the fuck away every time the going gets tough. Stop being a-a brat and come the fuck back home. Your mom is starting to get worried."_  
**Deleted**  
**Second Message**  
_"Seriously Morty? Do you even check your fucking phone? It's almost been a week. I-I'm getting sick of wondering where the fuck you are. If I have to come find you myself it won't be pretty. Call me back, at least."_  
**Deleted**  
**Third Message**  
_"What do you want me to say, Morty? You want me to tell you that I'll give you whatever you want, that I-I'll do whatever the fuck you want me to? Is that what I-I-I gotta do to get you to come the fuck back home? Meet me halfway here. I'm trying to do what's best-best for you, but I don't think you know what that is. At least come back so we can talk about it."_  
**Deleted**  
**Fourth Message**  
_"One more day and I'm coming to find you. I've given you enough time to figure your shit out. You better not be dead."_  
**Deleted**  
**End of Messages**  
☆  
"Well, y-you didn't have to drag my ass home. Aren't you proud of me?"  
Rick turns from his workbench in a stupor, wondering if he's finally gone crazy after all. Morty coming back on his own volition seems a little too good to be true given the massive anxiety that Rick's worked up over the past couple of days. He can't believe that Beth and Summer put up with this full time.  
"Proud of you?" He asks coolly, refusing to look Morty in the eye. "I could fucking strangle you."  
"Sorry, the International Bank of Strangling Morty had to shut down. It was receiving too many withdrawals and couldn't keep up w-with the demand."  
"Do you think you're funny?"  
Morty shrugs, shuts the garage door behind him. "Is that a-a rhetorical question? Because I'm pretty sure that's one of those things where if you have to ask, the answer is probably no."  
"Morty," Rick warns.  
"What do y-you want me to say, Rick?" Morty sighs, leaning carefully against the shelves. "'Sorry the old Morty was better, your replacement coupon is in the mail?'"  
"Could we not rehash this? I was high."  
"The only time you're honest is when you're high," Morty counters. His chest flares up with that same feeling that occurred eight days ago, makes it feel sort of hard to breathe through the anger that the sensation induces. He's not particularly keen on bringing up this argument again either, but the mind has a way of focusing on the one thing that you would much rather forget.  
"Y-You're doing--taking too much stalk in what I-I-I say, Morty, it's...it didn't fucking mean anything, okay?"  
"It meant something to me."  
"Jesus Christ," Rick sighs, running his hands through his hair. "All I said was that--"  
"You wouldn't have left if-if you knew it was going to make me useless," Morty finishes, his jaw set. Saying the words out loud for himself feels like ripping open a fresh wound.  
"You're taking it the wrong way, I-I-I--"  
"What way was I supposed to take it, Rick?" Morty interrupts. "It-It seems pretty straightforward to me."  
Rick shakes his head as if warding away the negative connotations of his own ramblings. "This isn't-isn't even about me. This about you taking off with-without saying anything. Did you even--do you know how worried your mom and sister were?"  
Morty is silent, appraising. Rick's unwillingness to continue the conversation at hand speaks more volumes than the words themselves.  
Finally, he says, "So what?"  
"So what?" Rick repeats. "You could've been dead. How was anyone supposed to know? How was-was I supposed to find you?"  
"Why would you want to find me?" Morty laughs humorlessly, his eyes looking sort of empty in a way that makes Rick's heart twist...not that he'd ever admit it. "I'm useless."  
"I asked you to come back, didn't I?" Rick demands. "What do I-I-I have to do to prove myself to you?"  
"Maybe don't tear down the self-esteem of the people y-you care about, for starters." Morty suggests sarcastically. "Or leave them for four months. Or treat them like shit in general."  
"I'm a fuck up, Morty. What am I supposed to do?"  
"Fuck up in a way that-that makes me hate you a little less," Morty murmurs.  
"I can't just-just give you what you want, Morty; I-I don't work that way."  
"What do I want?" Morty challenges, one brow raised in a way that suggests that he thinks Rick doesn't really know.  
"Y-You _should_  want to be sober, and home, and happy...with your family. You should want to be here."  
"But that's what you want."  
"That's what's _best_  for you," Rick insists.  
Morty crosses his arms over his chest, looks around the room sort of passively while he thinks. And then, miraculously, he comes up with an idea. A glorious, wonderful idea that ensures that he gets what he wants, that promises the trade of one outlet for another...An idea that gives him control.  
"I'll make you a deal," he grins devilishly.  
"A deal?" Rick asks, clearly skeptical. He doesn't like to be on the receiving end of deals, knows he'll probably be getting the lesser trade. Morty, especially, is no exception.  
"Yeah," he nods. "A deal. You get what you want, I get what I want. A-A-A win-win."  
"I'm listening."  
"I'll get clean, but..." He swallows, tries to control the reddening in his cheeks. This is no time for him to be embarrassed, not when his chance to trap Rick is so close. "Wh-What happened on my birthday...continues, so-so to speak."  
"You've got to be kidding me," Rick mumbles.  
"It's in your favor, y'know," Morty persuades. "I'll be home, sober...isn't that what you want?"  
"Yeah, but--"  
"Do you really wanna pass up th-the opportunity to get me off drugs over one little condition?"  
"I-I don't think fucking my grandson as part of a deal can re-really be considered a 'little condition'," Rick snaps, trying to shrug off that dark, hidden part inside of him that wants to jump at this opportunity. It really _does_  seem like the deal is in his favor...that is, if he ignores all of his morals and rational thinking.  
"Come on, Rick. No drugs, no alcohol, no partying, no running away for eight days with the guy who tried to rape me--"  
" _That's_  who you were with?"  
"Unimportant. The point is, I'll be normal again. I mean, you'll pr-probably have to take care of me when I'm puking my-my guts out and sweating through all the sheets in the house, but aside from that...you're getting the better end of the bargain. All-All you have to do is say yes."  
"Morty, you're...seriously, you're twisted," Rick groans.  
"Then say no."  
"You're putting me in-in a position where I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't."  
"Then pick the option you can live with," Morty offers, pleased with himself. He moves to take his own seat at the workbench and turns it to face Rick, face expectant as he waits for the answer.  
"Fuck, fine," Rick agrees, unscrewing the cap of his flask to knock back a considerable amount of liquor.  
"Is that a 'Fine, I'll accept your offer' or a 'Fine, you can go fuck yourself'?"  
Rick offers the flask to Morty before shucking off his lab coat, leaving it on the back of the chair as he stands, looming over his grandson with a rueful look in his eye.  
"It's a 'Fine, I'll fuck you'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me *yelling*: It's happening! It's happening! Places everyone, it's fucking happening!  
> Ahhh! I bet no one is excited as I am.  
> I originally wanted Rick to come up with the premise of the deal, but once I started writing it felt more fitting for Morty to do it. He's a pretty cunning fellow.  
> Anyways, hello once again! I am here to bring you chapter nine and all the angst that that brings with it. Did you like it? Are you excited for the next chapter? Golly gosh I know I am. And all the chapters after it. It's only going to get more dramatic from here! Yay!  
> Now that I'm done rambling, thanks for reading! Your feedback is always a lovely surprise and I enjoy reading it. See you in the next chapter! ♡


	10. Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick completes his end of the deal.

"Now?" Morty asks, taking a few shots of liquor for himself before setting the flask down.  
"Y-You got somewhere else to be?" Rick jeers, pulling off his sweater to reveal the scarred chest underneath.  
"N-No, I--"  
"Morty, this is your deal. Stop being a pussy."  
"I-I-I'm not a-a pussy!" He stammers, trying to control the shaking in his hands as he awkwardly wrestles his t-shirt over his head.  
Rick rolls his eyes. "Ooh, wow, my bad. I-I wouldn't have said it if I knew what a-a master comeback artist you were."  
"Y-You really piss me off, y'know?" Morty snaps, shoving Rick back so they can stand chest to chest.  
"Then why are we doing this?"  
"Why does anyone do anything?" He retorts, ignoring the jolt in his spine when he reaches his hand out to grab Rick's shoulder. It's firm, strong with the years of experience that come from Rick getting himself out of life-threatening situations. Morty tries to tell himself that he's not really going to enjoy any part of this, the feeling of putting his hands on Rick or Rick putting his hands on him, that this whole ordeal is strictly for control and nothing more, but there's a pang in his chest that says otherwise, picks up pace when their skin collides inch by inch. He convinces himself that it's just hormones. He is still a teenage boy, after all.  
When he finally musters the courage to look up, cheeks colored like roses, Rick is staring at him. Like, really staring at him.  
"What?" He mumbles self-consciously, fingers tightening their grasp.  
"I'm just trying to-to figure you out."  
"Well don't."  
"You were a little more forthcoming last time," Rick smiles, his eyes slightly mocking.  
"Last time was different."  
"Oh? How so?"  
Morty bites his lower lip and leans a little of his weight on Rick, gaze trained on the floor. "Sp-Spur of the moment?"  
Rick rests his hands underneath Morty's ass and hoists him up to sit on worktable, graceful in his movements though Morty is flailing a little. "You mean like this?" He asks.  
"I-I-It's--" Morty takes a deep breath, tries desperately to reign in his nervousness. "It's a-a little different when I'm the one doing it."  
Rick leans in, brushes a curl away from Morty's ear. "Then do something that surprises me."  
"I...I didn't think _you'd_  be so forthcoming," Morty admits all breathy, trying to soften himself up to take control by pulling Rick a little closer.  
"W-Wouldn't be fair if I didn't hold up my-my end of the bargain to the best of my ability," Rick snickers, pressing his lips to Morty's jaw.  
"No, guess-guess not." He turns Rick's lips to his own and they gravitate like opposing magnetic forces, drawn to each other by laws of attraction, or perhaps something a little more sinister than what can be explained by basic physics. It doesn't matter to either of them, not really. Nothing really does once they begin to kiss.  
They breathe each other's air like it's the only oxygen they're going to get, lie to themselves until they're too distracted to think. Rick glides his tongue along Morty's with a deftly slow pace, and Morty is far too hypnotized by the sensations being forced upon him to feel embarrassed about his own reactions. He gasps audibly, digs his fingers into Rick's shoulder blades to bring him closer, if they can get any closer than this.  
"You're sure you want this?" Rick asks, and he's so near that Morty can feel the rumble of the words in his chest.  
"It's a good deal, Rick," Morty smirks, filling up with that confidence that touching Rick seems to instill in him "It'd be a-a shame to pass it up."  
"Mm," Rick agrees, mouth suddenly full of Morty's skin. He traces his fingertips down Morty's sides and back up, creating imaginary patterns on his bare torso that make his nerves tingle.  
And everything feels good, gods, does everything feel good, but that greedy, demanding side of Morty can't help but want _more_  of this, to want to feel so good that it helps him forget more than any drug ever could.  
Rick is leaving horrendous bite marks all over his neck. In fact, Morty is sure that a few of them are bleeding, and the pain is mind-altering, and he's feeling glad glad glad that he was gone for those eight days, because if he had stayed home the hickies might be hard to explain away, and hell, if he hadn't gone there might not even be any hickies _to_  explain away, and Morty doesn't want Rick to stop marking him up in a way that has his endorphins rushing, but he needs it to be worse, or better, or whatever this pain-pleasure can be described as. So he guides Rick down a little farther, to his chest, and Morty will be damned if he doesn't deliver.  
Rick, unsurprisingly, is exactly the type of guy that knows how to make someone squirm in the best possible way. At first he starts off gentle like he does when they kiss, his mouth delicate and needy and appreciative, and as soon Morty is warming into that feeling, Rick is using his teeth again, edging them close to Morty's nipples until he's keening on the very edge, anticipating that shock of welcome discomfort.  
It's the pressure of that discomfort that has Morty vocal in a way that he typically reserves for when he's completely alone. As soon as Rick adds his tongue to the equation, running it over Morty's nipple as the skin beneath his teeth begins to break, feeling more like razors than anything that could be found inside of a human body, Morty starts running his mouth before be can stop it.  
"F-Fuck, fuck, oh _god_ , I-I can't, I can't, I, _fuck-_ -"  
Rick lifts his head, his grin devilish and covered in--Jesus Christ on a cross--Morty's blood. Morty has to remind himself to breathe.  
"Backing out so soon?" He asks, but it feels more like a challenge than a question.  
"N-No. Fuck, y-you _asshole_. Please tell me you're not-not gonna stop every time you wanna be a-a cocky _fuck_ , you--"  
"Didn't know you were gonna be so-so needy for it," Rick chuckles, and Morty can't help but think that the way his eyes crinkle is unnervingly attractive. "Gotta admit, M-Morty," he whispers, stretching so that his lips are just brushing his grandson's ear. "I-It's kind of slutty."  
Morty trembles at the words, runs a shaky hand down the front of Rick's chest until he's hovering just above his belt, teasing where scarred skin meets rough fabric. He's overwhelmed, for some reason that he's too far gone to think about, to prove Rick right. If Rick thinks Morty is a slut, then Morty is going to match that proclamation tenfold.  
"You want to touch me?" Rick murmurs, gripping at the small of Morty's back. "I-I don't think you can handle it."  
"I think it's the other way around," Morty retorts with a sureness that has Rick's pulse racing.  
He grabs a fistful of Rick's hair and pulls him in, his other hand busy at work undoing the belt. The small clanks feel like the stutters of his own heart, resound in his ears like the deafening echoes of gunshots. He unbuttons Rick's pants, slides them down his hips with all the pace and fervor of a dire emergency...like Morty _needs_  to touch him. And for a fleeting moment, Rick allows himself to feel that need back, to feel the need to be touched by his grandson.  
"I gotta say, Rick," Morty muses, rubbing Rick's thigh through the thin fabric of his underwear. "You're pr-pretty hard for someone who's just accepting a deal."  
Rick shrugs, let's his hands fall to Morty's ass. "Hands are hands, right?"  
"Keep telling yourself that," Morty laughs before slipping his fingers underneath Rick's boxers. "We'll see how long you hold out."  
It's only then that Rick realizes that Morty has never touched him like this before, that he hadn't allowed him to get this far the last time. How strange for it to feel so natural, then, like Morty had always been meant to jack him off like he'd done it a hundred times before.  
Morty's hands are small, and they're soft, and _god_  this is wrong, this is so wrong, and the thought of it only serves to make Rick more turned on.  
"Better than what you'd e-expect from a virgin?" Morty mocks, Rick's cock dripping precum onto the knuckles of his hands. It feels different than it does with Dylan, less like a task and more like...more like what? Morty can't find a way to explain it. He's enjoying it. He's actually enjoying giving a handjob to this smug bastard, enjoying how it feels to have Rick at his mercy, breath unsteady only because Morty is willing it so. Control to Morty is better than any drug. Controlling Rick is the peak of nirvana.  
"Fuck," Rick grunts, crowding over Morty so that his collarbone is level with Morty's mouth. Perfect, Morty thinks, for him to leave a few marks of his own. He cranes his neck a little, runs his tongue along the taut skin while he strokes Rick all slow and sweet, like he's doting rather than savoring the powerful feeling coursing through his veins. If this is the closest thing he has left to a drug, then he wants it to last. God, he wants it to last.  
"Shit," Rick murmurs all low and gravelly, and the sound of it sends a jolt straight to Morty's dick. He squeezes his thighs together, tries to will away his shameless erection before Rick can notice and make a move to touch him, because lord only knows how long _Morty_  can hold out, but it's a fruitless effort. Rick seems about as impatient to touch Morty as Morty's body is impatient to be touched.  
At first it's just some petting outside the jeans, fingers running along the outline of Morty's dick. He can handle that, at least. But around the same time he makes the move to bite into Rick's skin, Rick makes the move to unzip Morty's pants. He has to remind himself that this has happened before, that this is something he can surely handle without completely losing his mind, but the heat between them, the warm breath and the sweaty skin and the sheer anger and passion and...' _Holy fuck_ ,' Morty thinks, his brain short circuiting.  
His eyes fall from Rick's chest to his stomach to their groins, their erections sliding against each other as Morty releases his hands in a sort of shock, and it's way better than the rutting in the ship, a thousand times better.  
"Holy fuck," he says aloud this time, his voice on the edge of a moan.  
Rick narrows his eyes suggestively, wraps a hand around the both of them and murmurs, "Y-You like it, you sick fuck?" And Morty wonders for a moment if this is Rick's version of the 'sweet nothings' he had mentioned before. Not that he's objecting.  
"Yeah," Morty grins wantonly, nails digging into Rick's side. If Rick wants sick, Morty can give him sick like he owns the fucking word. "I-I like it, Grandpa Rick."  
Rick pauses for a second, appraises him with a skeptical expression. Morty is afraid that he's going to stop, that he's finally gone too far, but then Rick is kissing him again, practically licking his way to the back of Morty's teeth, and Morty is gasping for air during those rare moments when their lips actually break apart.  
And still, _still_ , Morty knows that he needs more than this. Rick is jacking off both of them like his life depends on it, and they're kissing as if they're trying to break some sort of record, and his chest is swelling with this pleased, feather-light feeling that has him afraid that he just might float away, and yet he needs more, needs worse. Rick said he would fuck him, and so Morty wants to be fucked.  
"Rick," Morty breathes, grabbing his free hand to guide it to the inside of his thigh, coaxing. It doesn't take much for Rick to realize what he's getting at.  
"Needy," Rick tuts, peppering kisses along his grandson's jawline.  
"You said--"  
"I know, Morty," he cuts in. "We're-We're getting there."  
"But..." Morty bites his lip, buries his face into Rick's shoulder like a security blanket. He may be confident, but he's not feeling _that_  confident.  
"But?"  
"I-I'm getting close," he mutters broodingly, staring pointedly at his own leaking erection. To his surprise, Rick laughs.  
"All th-that time masturbating and you-you never figured out how to boost your endurance?"  
"This is _different,"_  Morty insists, his blush rising to his ears.  
"Alright, alright. Put your legs up."  
Morty lifts his head, his face looking a little horrified, and Rick has to stifle another laugh. "Morty, this was your idea," he reminds him.  
"Ugh, fine," he groans dismissively, shimmying the rest of the way out his underwear. He takes a deep breath, prepares to put himself in the most embarrassing position he's probably ever been in in his entire life, and lifts his legs up on the table. Rick can't help but stare.  
"Take a picture," Morty quips, wanting so badly to shield himself.  
"No, I, um," Rick sputters, momentarily distracted. "You...You look..." Sexy, small, vulnerable, amazing in a way that he hadn't expected before and sure as shit didn't expect now? The image of Morty naked is not something that he thinks he'll ever get used to.  
Morty rolls his eyes and leans back a little, his back arched suggestively. "Yeah, sure, I look-look good or whatever. Let's skip the part where you try to reassure me and get to-to the important stuff."  
"You talk a-a-a big game for someone who's gonna be crying like a l-little bitch in a few minutes," Rick comments, bending down to root through one of the many drawers under the workbench.  
"I wouldn't get my hopes up."  
"No?" Rick asks, setting down a bottle of lube on the counter. "Guess we'll see."  
He slides his hand from Morty's knee to his thigh, draws lazy circles with his finger. Morty's skin is soft and pale, covered in barely noticeable blonde hairs that don't feel quite appropriate for his age. He has always been a little behind in the development department, Rick thinks, but that's not what has him worried.  
There's no cellulite on his thighs, not even a trace of the baby fat that most kids his age carry over to puberty. Morty has a fucking thigh gap the size of Texas.  
"You're staring," Morty sighs, looking impatient.  
Rick takes a deep breath to collect himself. "Sorry," he mumbles, popping open the cap on the bottle. He has to remind himself that this is why they're doing what they're doing in the first place, that all the things he so desperately wants to lecture Morty on are battles for another day. All he has to do right now is hold up his end of the bargain.  
"This is probably going to be cold," he warns.  
Morty winces. It _is_ cold, but first and foremost it's really, really uncomfortable. Rick eases his finger into Morty's ass up to the knuckle, going slow enough to help Morty get used to the feeling, but that doesn't make it any more enjoyable.  
"Morty, y-you gotta relax."  
"I--ugh--I can't," he whines, his eyes squeezing shut against the sensation.  
"Does it hurt?"  
"No."  
"Then _relax_ ," Rick stresses, hoisting one of Morty's legs up to rest on his shoulder. He has to admit, there is a certain cuteness about Morty's reaction, the way his face scrunches up when Rick moves his hand and how he huffs out practiced little breaths when he's trying to focus on relaxing his body. Rick never would've thought in a million years that there'd be a time when he considered his grandson cute. It's strange.  
"Can you take another?"  
Morty frowns like a sullen child, pushing curls out of his face. "Already?"  
"I-It was just a question, Morty."  
"M--" He pauses when Rick curls his finger upward, teasing around something that sends a tingle up his spine. "Maybe?" He huffs.  
Rick gives him a stern look. "Yes or no."  
"Ahh--yes, okay, y-yes," he stammers, bony fingers gripping onto Rick like a vice. He lets out a ragged breath as Rick adds a second finger, cheeks flaming.  
And Rick can't help it. He has to kiss him, to suck on Morty's lips until they're swollen and drag their tongues together until he's swallowing Morty's conflicted little moans like he owns them. He's too cute. The little shit is just too fucking cute and Rick both hates and adores the way it commands his every move. He couldn't stop now even if he wanted to.  
"Oh fuck," Morty cries, his hips careening into the table as Rick finally slides his fingers over his prostate. It's such a painful, itching euphoria that it seizes up his muscles inch by inch, has him spiraling to gain back control of his own body. But Rick keeps going, and then he adds another finger, and Morty is definitely about to hit the peak of something awful and fantastic. "Rick," he murmurs frantically, nails leaving bloodied scratch marks down the older man's biceps. "I-I want it. I--nn--wa-want you, please, please."  
"Morty," Rick smirks, rubbing his thumb over Morty's bottom lip. "I-If there was an award for Most Impatient Virgin, you--you'd win it."  
"Fuck you, just-just do it," Morty gasps, hands dropping in relief and displeasure at the empty feeling inside of him when Rick withdraws his fingers and starts lubing himself up.  
And suddenly there's that pressure again, that terrible feeling that something is about to go inside of him that definitely is not supposed to be there.  
"This is-is gonna hurt," Rick says, and then he pushes the tip inside, past that first ring of muscle, and Morty blanks, his body wracked with white, searing pain that travels up his back.  
"It's..." He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, tries to reroute his head to reality. "It's not--ow, _fuck_ \--gonna fit."  
"It'll fit," Rick says matter-of-factly, pushing himself in a little further.  
Morty whimpers. "C-C-Could you maybe...go a-a little slower?" He pleads.  
"Morty, I _am_  going slow. I-I told you it would--was gonna hurt. Y-You gotta chill."  
Morty leans forward and grabs the back of Rick's neck, pulling him down so they're eye-level. "Fuck. You."  
"There's the Morty we-we all know and love," Rick says all sarcastic, bending to lick one of Morty's hickies. "W-Wanna take it out on Grandpa, y-you little shit?"  
Morty grips Rick by the jaw, his expression a dangerous mixture of hatred and smugness. "Yeah, Rick," he smiles, craning forward to brush their lips together. "I-I think I do."  
And then he bites Rick's lip, hard.  
"Fuck," Rick spits, wiping the trickle of blood that's started to run down his chin. "A-A little warning would've been nice." He glares daggers at Morty, shoving his cock in a little harder in retaliation, but Morty begins to grip his wrist hard enough to bruise. They trap each other in this cycle of pain as Morty adjusts to the feeling of Rick inside of him, becoming a writhing mess the closer they get to being binded together completely.  
Finally, after what feels like forever, Rick says, "It's all in," and Morty breathes a sigh of relief, albeit feeling like he's going to burst at the seams. They make it look so easy in porn.  
"O-Okay," he nods, letting his hands travel to Rick's back. His skin is red where Morty's fingers held vice on his arms. "You can move, ju-just...go slow."  
Rick grits his teeth as he pulls out a little, trying to remind himself to be gentle. It's always been a task for him when it comes to Morty, but now he's finding that he has to exercise all of his will just so he won't break the kid in half.  
"You okay?" Rick asks, making slow, shallow thrusts.  
"Ju--ahh--st peachy," he smiles weakly, adjusting himself so that his hips aren't taking most of the damage.  
"It'll feel better soon," Rick promises, landing a kiss on Morty's calve.  
It suddenly feels too sweet for him, like he's fucking a boyfriend and not Rick, who left him behind for all those months and treats him like shit still, like he's giving a little of himself over instead of taking from Rick what he feels he's owed. Now is no time for weakness.  
And suddenly he's meeting Rick thrust for thrust, letting Rick hold some of his weight so they can fuck, really fuck, like they should've done in the ship on his birthday. Pain be damned.  
"Y-You're gonna hurt yourself, idiot," Rick chastises, but Morty brings his hips down harder, holds Rick a little closer.  
"Maybe I don't...wanna wait?" He whispers between labored breaths.  
"Morty--"  
"Rick, go faster," Morty demands.  
How can he say no?  
Morty moans against the friction, the feeling of being so full, has to stifle a yelp when Rick hits that spot again and again and again, and still all he can say is, "Faster," like it's not enough, and maybe it never is. Maybe it never will be.  
"You're doing pretty-pretty good."  
"Shut up," Morty snaps. "I don't ne--ooh--ed you to tell me that."  
"Oh? Then wh-what should I say, Morty? Should I tell you that you're the-the tightest piece of ass that I've had in a-a-a decade? That taking your-- _fuck_ \--virginity has me so-so turned on that I'm almost sure I'm f-fucking crazy at this point? Is that what you want to hear?"  
Rick is slamming into Morty so hard that he feels it in every muscle, relishes the euphoric hurt that's tingling through every inch of him like static. "Touch me," he begs, and so Rick does, and that's when the tears come just as Rick had predicted, falling down his cheeks the way water drips down the walls in a shower. He's not even sure why.  
"I told you," Rick grins confidently, but it's too snide for Morty's liking. Now is as good a time as any to strike.  
He hoists himself up so that Rick is practically holding him, and it all feels like too much, like he's teetering on the edge of the unknown, and that's when he says it, his eyes sort of dark and demanding. It's a look that strikes a sort of shock into Rick.  
"I own you," he whispers, lips brushing Rick's ear, and then, before he can react, "I-I'm--oh fuck, I'm coming."  
Rick tries to convince himself that it's not Morty's statement that has him following soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not well versed in the dabblings of smut. Please forgive any errors or things that sound out of place.   
> Aside from that disclaimer, hoo boy. It finally happened! Holy crap! There are so many saucy things coming after this. I'm so excited that we're getting into the actual middle of the story. The drama! The romance! The angst! *Swoon*  
> I hope you guys liked this chapter, it's been the longest so far and I worked really hard on it. As always I appreciate and enjoy reading feedback. Thanks for reading! ♡


	11. Lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty begins his detox. Rick reveals something about his childhood.

They don't talk about it, of course. Not that either of them would be sure what to say in regards to the situation anyways.  
Instead, they focus on discussing the details of Morty's detox. Or, more accurately, arguing about the details of Morty's detox.  
Rick wants Morty to begin immediately. Morty argues that it should be a gradual process.  
In the end, as it goes with most things, Rick gets his way, if only because, as he so eloquently put it in the only terms they would discuss the loss of Morty's virginity, 'I completed my end of the deal right away, and fair is-is fucking fair, Morty'.  
And so they meet in Morty's room the next morning, the house still asleep, throwing away the contents of the drawer. At least, Rick throws away the contents of the drawer while Morty sulks on the bed.  
"What a waste," he sighs, rooting through the nightstand to pull out a pack of cigarettes. Rick glares. "What?" He asks defensively, slapping the bottom of the box. "They don't get me high."  
"Don't you think your mom will-will notice if you smoke cigarettes in the house?"  
"Did she notice when I smoked crack in the house?" Morty retorts.  
Rick shrugs, holding up a pill bottle to examine it in the light. Fair enough.  
"Jesus, i-is your drug dealer a-a-a fucking pharmacist? I never got shit this high grade when I was younger."  
Morty leans back against his pillows and lights a cigarette, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "Got a boyfriend with connections...or, uh, _had_ , I guess. Kind of-of hard to say since I, y'know..." He takes another drag off the cigarette. "Stabbed him or whatever."  
"You stabbed him?" Rick asks incredulously.  
"Heroin plus strangling equals a-a-a very unhappy Morty," he huffs. He has no intention of going into the details of it, not really. There's still too much for him to process himself.  
"So that's what you meant then," Rick says, dropping a needle into the trashcan. "About the strangling thing."  
"I just got--I don't know, tired," Morty explains dismissively.  
"How'd you meet that guy anyways?"  
That's definitely not a memory Morty can talk about, especially with Rick. Making a plan to commit suicide in lieu of your grandfather's absence isn't exactly something you want to mention in casual conversation.  
"I-I don't know, a party or something?"  
Rick has always had an uncanny gift for catching Morty on a lie. Now is no different. "How'd you really meet him?"  
"Maybe I'll tell you when I'm feeling a little more sentimental," Morty offers, tapping his ash into the drawer of the nightstand. "I-I've heard detoxes have that kind of effect."  
"I'm assuming it's something I'd rather not hear?"  
"You know, you'd be really good as one of those bullshit psychics. People would d-definitely pay money to have you-you tell them shit they already know."  
"Be amazed," Rick begins, arcing his hands through the air like a theatrical magician. "As I-I tell you that you, along with seven billion other people on the-the planet, have a-an irrational fear of dying alone. Only three hundred dollars an hour."  
"Steep price," Morty laughs.  
"You can't undercharge for greatness, M-Morty."  
"Ha," Morty grins, tapping the side of his temple. "That's why drugs cost so much money."  
☆  
As per Morty's one and only condition, Rick tells Beth and Summer that he plans to take Morty on a trip. He finds himself both a little sad and grateful that they don't really need much explanation beyond that, but he can't really blame them. They're simply grateful that the two of them are spending time together again, not exchanging icy glares over the dinner table at every scheduled meal. The air around them is still tense, of course, and no one is really sure what to say or how to act in the presence of either of them without making their alloted times together awkward and finicky. This is partly the reason why Morty has asked Rick to take him away from home to complete his end of the bargain.  
That's what they call it: completing their ends of the bargain. Like Rick hadn't fucked Morty and Morty isn't about to go through the worst week of his entire life to pay for it. It just seems easier for the both of them to skirt around the truth of things.  
Although Morty seems antsy in the ship, running his fingers up and down his duffel bag with varying frequency, he seems in good spirits. "I feel great," he says again and again, hoping if he says it enough times that it will keep being true.  
But he's scared. He's heard the horror stories before, nightmarish tales of withdrawal symptoms that sound like what many describe as their personal definition of hell on earth. He's starting to think that Rick really _is_  getting the better end of the deal.  
"You'll be fine," Rick assures him as they park in front of a rundown condo off-planet. Morty's not sure how he got the place, but his mind is too preoccupied to care. "I'll be right here with you."  
"Easy for-for you to say," Morty snaps, popping open the door beside him. "Only one of us is going to want to fucking die."  
"M-Morty, I always want to die. I-I-I supercede you."  
Morty rolls his eyes and trudges up the creaking stairs to the porch, focusing on the peeling paint to curb his anxiety. It feels like he's awaiting execution.  
"Have you ever done this before?" He asks as Rick comes up behind him, grunting as the keys get stuck in the lock for a second before budging.  
"Detoxing or helping someone else do it?"  
They step into a tiny foyer with several plants and an antique coat rack. More homey than Morty would expect.  
"Detoxing."  
"Once, on a bet," Rick says, shutting the door behind Morty.  
"And?"  
Rick shrugs and leads Morty to the kitchen, throwing the set of keys on the counter. "Couldn't do it."  
'Go figure,' Morty thinks. "Why not?"  
"Started having seizures. Not worth the-the flarbos."  
"Jesus," he mutters. "I don't think I--"  
"You won't have any seizures," Rick interrupts. "...Probably."  
Morty drops down into a stool, setting his bag down on the floor beside him. He feels tired already. "How reassuring."  
"Detoxing on alcohol and detoxing on heroin is--they're two different things, Morty. Granted, they both fucking suck in their own right. But you owe me. You can't back out now."  
"What, my virginity wasn't enough?" Morty smiles innocently, tracing patterns on the island with his fingernail. It's the first time he's mentioned it in any capacity, not that much time has passed since. He can still feel that stinging ache in his hips that makes it sort of hard to walk properly.  
Rick opens the fridge and peers inside for a second before grabbing a bottle of water. Weird. Morty would've expected a beer, at least. "Any benefits I receive while completing my end of the deal are--urp--irrelevant," he says, unscrewing the cap.  
There are about a million different things Morty could say right now, ninety percent of them mocking, but he decides to let it drop. "No alcohol?" He asks.  
"Not in front of you, at least. You-You should eat something. You're not gonna be hungry for awhile."  
"I'm not hungry _now_ ," Morty insists, draping himself across the counter. The cool marble feels comforting against his cheek.  
"I bet you aren't," Rick replies sarcastically, already beginning to root through the cabinets.  
Morty quirks an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"  
"That I'm not blind?" He withdraws a box of pasta and sets it down by the stove, moving to the bottom cupboard by the sink. It's sort of nice to watch Rick while he works, even if it feels like they're on the edge of another argument.  
"I'm not that skinny."  
"How much do you weigh, Morty?" Rick asks nonchalantly.  
Morty frowns. "I don't check."  
"There's a scale in the bathroom down the hall."  
Silence hums through the air for a few brief moments, save for the sounds of clanking pans and water being poured from the faucet. "You want me to weigh myself?"  
"Out of curiosity, yes."  
"Fine," Morty huffs. At least if it's too steep he can just make a number up. There are times when Rick doesn't pick up on the little white lies, after all.  
He stalks off to the bathroom, surveying the rooms as he passes. The house feels...lived in, like there's been someone here to take care of the small, tedious things like watering the plants and putting the books back in their rightful places on the shelves. It's small, but charming. Morty has absolutely no doubt in his mind that it does not solely belong to Rick, if it belongs to him at all. His style is a little too eclectic for a house so neat.  
The scale sits between the linen closet and the bathroom door, menacing in it's own right. Morty hasn't weighed himself in months. He knows it's probably bad.  
"Okay, Morty," he says to himself in the large mirror on the wall to his left. He drags the scale away from the wall with his foot and stares down at it like a poisonous snake.  
"One...two...three."  
Ninety-nine point two.  
Yup, he can definitely feel the bite from that one.  
He returns to the kitchen with a somber expression. Rick is busy with a saucepan at the stove.  
"Well?" He asks expectantly, stirring something that smells delicious.  
"One-twenty," Morty fibs.  
Rick shakes his head. "You fucking liar. What is it?"  
Damn.  
Morty looks about the room, eyes landing everywhere but on Rick. "That smells good," he says, gesturing toward whatever is bubbling in the pan.  
" _Morty_."  
"Ninety-nine," he mumbles.  
"Yeah, that's what I thought."  
"I didn't know you could cook," Morty comments, clamoring for a change of subject.  
"I'm sixty-five, Morty, not twenty. It shouldn't come as-as a-a-a surprise when old people know how to cook. You learn how to take care of yourself at some point."  
Morty returns to his stool. "Sixty-five isn't old."  
"Yeah, well tell that to my liver."  
☆  
Morty rolls over in bed, eyes bleary as he searches for the clock in the dark.  
"Eleven o' six," he says aloud, doing the math in his head. It's been a little over seventeen hours since his last high. The reality of that starts to kick in when he notices a pulse-like headache stemming from his temples, a chill in his bones that has him wrapping his blanket tight around his shoulders. So it begins.  
Rick is in the next room over. While Morty had originally detested, too scared to be on his own, Rick had made a decent point.  
He had leaned back against his chair at the dinner table, rubbing the back of his neck like he had an ache. "Morty, I'll be honest," he said. "I want to get as much sleep as-as I possibly can before I have to mop your stomach acid off the floor."  
And so Morty had dropped the argument and agreed to separate rooms. Rick would be nearby, after all.  
But now Morty isn't sure when an appropriate time to call for him is. He's beginning to feel unwell, like he's at the beginning of a particularly grueling cold, but it's not unbearable. If he can get the headache to go away, he probably won't need Rick for another few hours.  
But the search for any sort of medicine in the house proves to be fruitless. It seems weird that a regularly occupied home would be without a few household necessities like aspirin or cold medicine. Morty comes to the conclusion that the lack of any drug in the condo, mind altering or not, probably has something to do with Rick. It's this assumption that makes him feel less guilty about waking him after a mere two hours of sleep.  
Rick checks his watch and sighs. "What are your symptoms?"  
"A-A pretty bad headache, I guess," Morty murmurs in the dark. "I've got chills too."  
"You woke me up for the-the same symptoms you'd get with a-a-a mild fucking flu, Morty," Rick gripes, sitting up to perch on the edge of the bed.  
"Is there any aspirin?"  
"I brought some with bu-but I doubt it'll actually do much. Your body is-is trying to regulate itself."  
Morty rests his weight against a nearby dresser, his mouth a little pouty. "Could we at least try?"  
Rick leans over to turn on the beside lamp, and it's then that Morty realizes that he never quite sees him in this state, messy hair even messier, eyes tired and dark, wearing nothing but a wife beater and boxers. Even his voice sounds different, a little huskier and boyish. The sight feels intimate somehow.  
Rick gestures toward his duffel bag, sitting untouched in a chair in the corner of the room. "Bring Grandpa his bag, Morty."  
Morty pauses for a moment, his mind shrouded in a chorus of 'I like it, Grandpa Rick,' repeating over and over like a broken record. He swallows hard.  
"Yeah, okay," he breathes, taking a few steps across the room to retrieve the bag. He hands it to Rick.  
Rick roots around for a second before withdrawing a blue bottle.  
Morty raises a brow. "Doesn't look like it's over-the-counter."  
"That's because I made it, dipshit."  
Morty snorts. "Since when you do you make medicine?"  
"Since pharmaceutical companies started putting a-a-a-a bunch of bullshit in it. It's a higher grade pain reliever."  
A smirk quirks at the corner of his lips as he leans close to Rick to examine the pills. "Are you sure you-you should give it to me then?"  
Rick shakes a pill into his hand and breaks it in half, folding it into Morty's hand before shouldering him away. "I'm not giving you enough to get high."  
"So they--" Morty pauses, dry swallows the pill with an effortlessness that suggests practice. "--could get you high?"  
"Do you think I'm dumb enough to-to let them out of my sight?"  
"People can dream, can't they?" Morty muses. Rick rolls his eyes.  
"Go back to bed, Morty."  
"I can't."  
"Then go downstairs and watch TV or something."  
Morty glares. "You won't stay up with me?"  
"Morty, I had two fucking hours of sleep. Stop being a baby."  
Morty's begins to argue, intending to say something particularly brutal in retaliation to Rick's nonchalant attitude, but the words die on his lips as soon as they come. His stomach twists tight behind his ribcage, and that's when he drops to his knees, hand held tight over his mouth.  
"Morty?"  
He can't help it. He pukes.  
"Oh, fuck." Rick scoots across the bed to rub Morty's back in what he hopes is a semi-comforting manner. He's never been good with these types of things, not even when it was his mother retching on the floor instead of his grandson. He's not quite emotional enough to be what others might consider comforting.  
Morty's stomach finally relents for a second, allowing him to gasp in the breath that his lungs are aching for. He already feels weak all over.  
"I'm gonna go get towels."  
"Okay," he gasps, his voice sounding strained. As Rick leaves the bedroom he begins to gag hard, like he's being choked, and he can't stop thinking about Dylan, about how he might have never known what it feels like to be choked by another person's hands, choked by his own body had they never met.  
Rick comes back with the towels and waits patiently for Morty to empty the contents of his stomach before he throws them over the mess and starts to clean. "It's the first time I've taken care of someone detoxing, but...y'know, my mom was real-real sick when I was a kid so I'm used to--" he gestures to the towels "all of this, I guess."  
Morty wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. "Sick how?"  
Rick shrugs as if the details of his mother's death are minor occurrences to him. "Breast cancer."  
"Your dad didn't take care of her?"  
Rick's mouth sets into a grim line. "No."  
"Oh," Morty coughs, wincing a little. "I'm sorry."  
"There's nothing to be sorry for. They're both dead."  
"Does it still make you sad?"  
Rick sits back, mopping at the sweat on his forehead with his elbow. "About my mom? Yeah, sometimes. But it's part of getting older, I guess. People die. Life goes on."  
"What about your dad?"  
A hard glint sets in Rick's eyes, like a fire made of shimmering black is burning inside of his irises. "Let's get one-one thing straight, Morty. I-I have never felt sad about my old man dying, and I never will."  
Morty is afraid to ask, but he does anyways. In this moment he feels that he knows so little about Rick. "Why?"  
Rick sighs. "I'm a cocky, mean-spirited asshole, M-Morty, but even I can't amount to being as horrible a person as that guy was. He practically ran on bad temper and whiskey."  
"Was he..."  
"Abusive? Yeah." Rick stares at the wall with a far-off look, like he's been transported to another time. "Let's just say that not all of my scars are from adventures."  
Morty holds the blanket closer as a cold tremor runs up his spine. "I never knew," he says.  
"That's cause I don't talk about it. And Morty?"  
"Yeah?"  
"If a middle-aged woman on chemo can hold it in until she finds a trashcan, so can you."  
☆  
Hell on earth doesn't even begin to cover it.  
Twenty-four hours in and worsening by the minute, Morty's detox process is far from smooth sailing. It feels as though he's lost complete control of his body, wracked by tremors and spasms that claw their way from the tips of his toes to the top of his head, leaving a sensation in their wake that can most accurately be described as pinpricks. And though his stomach has been emptier than it's ever been before, he can't stop gagging with waves of nausea, until even the bile inside of him burns it's way up his throat and exits his body with a fire-like vengeance that has him wishing for death, or at the very least a glass of water.  
But he can't swallow, can barely even strain his vocal chords to ask. His voice reduces itself to a raspy gasping, accompanied by pain-induced wincing that does nothing to aide the spasms.  
"Rick," he sobs, having long ago abandoned his will to stop the tears dripping down his cheeks. "I-I can't..." His eyes squeeze tight against the discomfort as he attempts to sound somewhat coherent. "I can't do it anymore."  
"I-It's really only a couple more days, Morty, you--"  
"No!" He cries, causing a nasty cough to grip his lungs. "I-I can't do...a couple more hours, I...I need..." God, he needs. He needs so badly. He's never wanted to feel that numb euphoria more in his life, to find the easy solution to this absolute torture. Had he known what he was getting into...  
"No, Morty, you _don't_  need it. You can do this," Rick says, doubting that his voice holds any semblance of encouragement. "Just don't think about it."  
"How?" Morty demands, hands twitching spastically at his sides.  
Rick smooths his sweater anxiously, trying to think of an idea. If someone had told him to not think about booze when _he_  was detoxing, he would've laughed in their fucking face.  
"I told you so-something about my childhood, so...I-I don't know, tell me something about your's. It's not like I was-was around to see it or anything."  
Morty snorts. "Got an hour? If...you haven't noticed I-I-I can't exact...ly carry on a full conversation...with my throat like-like this."  
"Wanna try water again?"  
Morty bites his lip at the mere memory of the attempt. "No, definitely not. I-I'll just..." he sighs.  
"Look, kid, the longer the better. Gives you less-less time to think about...y'know." He shrugs and leans back in his chair next to the bed, a certain carefulness about his posture that suggests worry.  
"Fine." Morty takes a deep breath. "There's not...a lot to tell, though." He pauses to think for a moment and then gives up, his eyes falling to the sheets beneath him. "It was...fuck, I-I don't know...it was lonely."  
"You had Summer, though," Rick tries, hoping it's not as lonely as Morty's expression suggests.  
Morty shakes his head. "No, it was like...Summer was older th...an I was, and-and she had friends...I was sort of awk...ward and scared of other people."  
"Why?"  
His fingers fidget with the pillowcase, the corners of his mouth downturned as he thinks about it. "Mom was...not bad, but sort of dis-distant I guess, like sh...e wanted wanted to be somewhere else, y'know? Like we...were sort of her second choice. I did-didn't get it, I-I thought, it...was me...something I did wrong. And Jerry was so caught up...in trying to-to-to cater to the both of their egos that...we--Summer and I--sort of faded into the background. For Summer...it was eas...y to ignore but..." He mops the sweat under his brow with unsteady hands, trying hard to keep his voice in check. "I was so caught...up in trying to figure out why...why I wasn't good enough that when it...came to other people I guess I just...didn't want to...deal with that disappointment again. I-I didn't...wan...t people to pay attention to me. And when they did I...tried so hard to be someone that they would like that I had no...no idea who I really was."  
"Fuck, Morty," Rick whistles, looking more troubled than he'd dare to let on. "That's some heavy stuff."  
"It doesn't matter," he murmurs, cheeks darkening a little. He's never talked about this with anyone before. It feels too important a part of himself to give to just anyone.  
Figures that he'd give it up to Rick.  
'He's already taken everything else,' he thinks begrudgingly.  
'Good,' that small part inside of him whispers back. 'Let him take it all.'  
"Shit," Rick swears, tilting Morty's face toward the light. His hands feel like fire.  
"What is it?" He asks worriedly, fretting in his mind the way his body cannot. It's only when he looks down that he gets his answer.  
Rick's hands are covered in blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd just like to start off by saying that although I have never detoxed, this chapter is very near and dear to my heart. It was one of those things that I had no trouble writing because the inspiration was already there. I'm really happy with the way it came out and I hope you guys are too.  
> Secondly, I'm extremely proud of how quickly I've been getting these chapters out lately, especially since I just started my new job. So props to me and props to you guys for leaving such awesome feedback that compels me to get this stuff out so you can read it. I really appreciative everyone's kind words and comments. They motivate me more than you know.  
> Last, as always, thanks for reading! I put a lot of work and research into this story and it's my sincere hope that you guys get just as much out of it as I do. Thank you thank you thank you for all the support that's gotten us as far as Chapter Eleven. I'm so excited for what's to come! See you in Chapter Twelve. ♡


	12. Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty comes clean.

"Am I--"  
"It's just a nosebleed," Rick reassures him, pulling some tissues from the nightstand. He hands them to Morty.  
"Is that normal?" He asks anxiously, wiping the blood from his chin, his lips.  
Rick appears to mull it over for a moment. "Not really for heroin."  
"Coke?"  
Rick nods perceptively, eyeing Morty over in a way that feels a little judgmental. "Yeah."  
Morty visibly relaxes, sinking his aching muscles into the mattress. "Makes sense."  
"Are there any drugs you _didn't_  take?"  
The pause as Morty thinks is exceptionally telling.  
"There were a...few things I-I only t...ook once."  
"And those were?"  
"Hm. I didn't like Percocet...or Xanax. They gave...me pretty bad headaches. And..." He stops to clear his throat, trying to ignore the sting that makes him feel as if it's been rubbed raw with steel wool. "I had a...pretty bad trip on acid."  
Rick rolls his eyes. "Yeah, you don't exactly seem like the-the type that has a good frame of mind for those kinds of things."  
Morty glares. "What's that...supposed to mean?"  
"To put it lightly...you're the type of person who could have a full blown panic attack over an untied shoelace." Pushing his chair back, he adds, "I'm gonna go wash my hands."  
Morty focuses his attention on the walls as Rick leaves, trying to keep his obsessive needs at bay. He's surprised to find that talking to Rick actually _did_ help, even with a subject matter as bleak as his life before he had entered it. He had never intended to discuss it with him, really, lest Rick got the idea that his sudden appearance had had some sort of positive affect on Morty's quality of life as a whole...even if in some, perhaps miniscule ways, it had. If Rick got an inkling of an idea of the impact he had truly made, though...well, Morty has a feeling that he'll never hear the end of it. Rick's ego is inflated enough as is.  
"So..." Rick begins, wiping his hands on his sweater as he reenters the bedroom. Morty wonders for a brief moment why he didn't also think to put his pants back on. "This boyfriend / ex-boyfriend of yours...i-is like, what, a drug dealer?"  
Morty purses his lips, already sensing where this conversation will turn. He's not quite sure he's ready to give _that_  part of himself up. "No, uh..." The sounds of his attempted laughter come out strained at best. "I-I like to think of him as...more of a-a-a drug conisseur."  
Rick narrows his eyes. "A conisseur, huh?"  
"He loves drugs...just about as much as y-y-y...ou love science."  
"That's no-no joke, Morty. Science is my lifelong partner."  
Morty smiles kind of sadly, pulling up the blankets to his neck as he's wracked with another shock of cold. "I'm sure...drugs are Dylan's lifelong par-partner too...at least, y'know...till they kill him."  
"So tell me again how you met this-this drug conisseur of yours."  
Morty turns on his side, propping his head up in his hand. "I never told you."  
"Exactly," Rick encourages. Morty grimaces.  
"I don't want to-to talk...about it."  
"Why not?"  
"You'll get mad."  
Rick leans back in his chair, resting his neck against the palms of his hands. "Morty," he begins, voice edging on sarcastic. "I came back from prison to-to-to find you more doped out than a-a crack whore at a casino. How could it get worse than that?"  
Sweat trickles down Morty's back like an inescapable dew, settling quicker than he can account for it. He can't tell if it's from the fever or his own anxiety about Rick finding out his secret. The idea of saying it aloud already has him reeling, as if slapped. It feels impossible.  
"It is," he promises.  
"I won't get mad," Rick lies. Like he's ever been in control of his emotions.  
"How about we trade?"  
Rick stiffens. "Oh, no, no no no, we're not--"  
"Not that, stupid," Morty snaps, but even using such a harsh tone feels hellish. He'll be surprised if he can even speak tomorrow. "Tell me something and...I'll tell you something."  
Rick seems doubtful. "I'm listening."  
"I'll tell you h-how I met Dylan if...you tell me why..." He swallows hard. "...you turned yourself in."  
Rick's expression twists from one of skepticism to confusion, and then blankness, like he's suddenly stepped out of his body and left the shell of it in his wake. He doesn't want to think about this, to open himself up any further. Giving Morty his emotions is as good as serving his heart to him on a silver platter. No one has ever seen these parts of him before, has seen more than what he's allowed on the surface. Sure, he's had his share of slip ups, moments when he was forced to admit his feelings, say the right thing to keep taking advantage of those who had made the humble mistake of giving more than what they received. Those moments felt like lies though, desperate, messy things he needed to say in order to get his way. They were the most shallow of that deep, dark pit inside of him where all thoughts and emotions went to die. They never amounted to anything major, anything that would've torn off his metaphoric mask and left him exposed. He had made sure of it.  
But this is not one of those things. This is treading much more dangerous territory. Morty has already seen more than most, has heard his share of things that Rick had regretted saying later. It seemed at every turn that the boy had a way of peeling back those layers inside of Rick and taking them for himself, as if it were as easy as breathing. Maybe he did have more sway over him than Rick had originally let himself believe.  
"Well?" Morty asks expectantly.  
Rick shifts uncomfortably. "I don't know."  
"What if I go first?" Morty persuades, wiping his sweaty forehead on the pillow beneath him.  
Rick sighs, defeated. How could he say no to Morty in this state? It's his fault that he has to go through this in the first place. The least he deserves is an explanation, right?  
'Wrong,' he wants to say, wants to scream until the word tears its way up his ribcage and knocks some sense into his brain.  
But instead he says, "Okay. You first."  
"I was about to jump...off a-a-a bridge," Morty states simply, trying to calculate Rick's reaction. He remains still, intent. "It was too...too dark to see but...Dylan sort of just...came from the shadows. Offered to-to...push me, so I would feel...less guilty, I guess."  
"Push you?" Rick repeats.  
"Yeah, y'know...maybe he just wanted...to see how I would react."  
"You said no."  
"Not...explicitly. I really just...wanted him to leave. It's not like I could've...gone through with it with an-an audience. So I started...thinking about it. He said, 'I can't push a thinker.'" Morty chuckles at the memory, ignoring the tight wheezing in his chest. "After that it was just...he told me he could make...make me feel better and I-I guess...in his own sort of way, he did."  
"Morty?"  
"Hm?"  
"Why were you going to jump off of a bridge?" Rick asks, his tone clipped.  
"You're not supposed to get mad," Morty reminds him.  
"I'm not mad. I'm asking a question."  
"You sound mad," Morty grumbles, taking a deep breath before continuing. "Why...why does anyone want to-to jump off...a bridge? I was sad, Rick." He falls silent, seems to think about his word choice. "No, not sad...empty. You...have no idea what it was like."  
"I have no idea what it was like?" Rick demands, gesticulating wildly as he searches for words beyond his grasp. "Morty, my entire life has-has-has been one bullshit thing after the next, but I never--"  
"Don't lie to me," Morty interrupts, his eyes fierce. "Don't you...don't you dare fucking lie to me."  
Rick sighs, scrubs a heavy hand over his face. "Morty..."  
"You think you're so...closed off, that if you put up...a front, no one will see all the things you don't want them to know...but I see, Rick. And I know." Morty jabs a bony finger into Rick's chest weakly, his hand shaking with the effort. "I'm sick of you...trying to high road me."  
"Morty, when I came back you told me that y-y-you fucking _hated_  me, so why--"  
"I do hate you," Morty murmurs into the space between them. "You're selfish, a-and mean, and abusive, but...you're the only person that's ever really given a fuck...even if most of the time...y-you act like you don't. I couldn't...I mean...After everything we'd done, everything I'd seen...What was there for me after that, Rick? Was I supposed to-to...go back to normal? Pretend it was a dream?"  
"I don't know, Morty...I didn't...I don't..."  
Morty works his way around another harsh cough and shucks off the blankets as a sudden heat consumes his veins. "Before you came here...I was still on that bridge. But after you left...the idea that I-I thought I knew pain before that...was laughable. And that's why I hate you...I used to be c-comforted by the idea of being alone, being _normal_  and...now it fucking terrifies me."  
Rick shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I-Is that...why you wanted to sleep with me?"  
"No," Morty laughs. "Even if I've given up...on the idea of normalcy...sleeping with you was completely un-unrelated."  
"Then _why_?"  
Morty smiles slyly, peeling off his shirt before he can muster the courage to jest. "You're going to owe me a lot of answers...after this."  
The suggestions of this notion leave Rick completely unaffected in his search for the truth. He's not even really thinking about what Morty's words could mean for him. "Why?" He asks again.  
"Rick," Morty soughs, fingertips tracing the edge of the bed between them. "All you've ever done is take and...give the bare minimum in return. Isn't it only fair...for me to take advantage of the situation now?"  
"What?" Rick demands through gritted teeth.  
"Am I wrong?"  
"So knowing that-that I felt _guilty_  about all of this, you--"  
"Monopolized on it," Morty finishes. "And you know what? I don't feel bad. People always...always let you play games with them, Rick...me, especially. I'm tired of-of being like everyone else in your life. Did you...I mean, did you really think someone wasn't going to-to find out how to beat you at that game one day? Did you really think...you'd go your entire life having it so-so easy? I'm tired...of being the bigger person...because finally being the one in control feels so much better."  
"When did you become..."  
"Smarter?"  
" _Like me_ , Morty. When did you-you turn into the exact opposite of everything you started as?"  
Morty flinches. "Rick, I'm not--"  
"But you are. I-I-I-I know how this goes Morty. You get hurt so y-you think that a little revenge will make you feel better, but...in the end, you only become exactly like the people you hate so much. It's a cycle, M-Morty. I just never thought..."  
"What was I supposed to do, Rick? Y-Y-You...let me get comfortable with-with the idea of...having someone that actually gave a-a shit and then you fucking _left_. Gone for good. Just like you fucking do whenever...shit hits the fan. And you know what? I was stupid enough to think...that I was special...But no one is special to you. So excuse me if for a fucking _second_ , I wanted to show you how that shit feels...The people who you love will always hurt you the most. Do you feel it now?"  
Rick stands, his back arched so that he's face to face with Morty, blocking the light from the lamp on the nightstand like an eclipse. Morty guesses that in a way, Rick has always been like that...sucking the light out of anyone who dares to get close.  
"I left so you wouldn't get hurt, dipshit," Rick spits.  
His exit knocks Morty with another wave of nausea that has nothing to do with the withdrawal.  
☆  
They're sitting on the couch watching Ball Fondlers. Morty is trying not to vomit into his glass of water. Everything aches. He wishes he could sleep.  
"Why sex, Morty?" Rick asks in between commercials. The room is lit dimly by the screen of the TV and nothing more, but Morty can still make out Rick's passive expression.  
"They say the body is a temple, right? Well...I wanted your temple to get fucked...metaphorically," Morty jokes.  
"Yeah, I don't think it was so metaphorical."  
"What other leverage did I have? It's not like you wanted to do it."  
"Okay," Rick sighs. "But what do you get out of it?"  
Morty purses his lips as he thinks, staring down into his glass like it holds all the answers. He's not even sure he really knows for himself. "Maybe I just...wanted to do something that would make sure you never forget me," he muses. "Y'know...when you leave for good."  
"Morty, I couldn't forget you even if I wanted to."  
"Well now you're scarred in case you're a liar," Morty chuckles, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes.  
"Listen..." Rick inhales kind of sharply, his eyes troubled. "When I was in prison...sometimes thinking about you was the only way I could get by, so..."  
"Bullshit," Morty declares, setting the cup down on the coffee table.  
"No, Morty. It-It isn't. I kept thinking about the things we could do when I got back, the places I could take you...how nice it would be to be back home, annoying the living shit out of you until you-you gave me one of your little speeches that always somehow makes me do the right thing. When things got hard...that's what I thought about."  
"I didn't think you'd miss me," Morty admits, scratching at one of the scabby bite marks on his collarbone. Rick pretends he doesn't know who they're from.  
"Just because I leave, it doesn't mean I don't care. Most of the time I leave _because_ I care. Because...I'm toxic, Morty...but I'm not toxic enough to not know it. Sometimes y-you just...you get tired of poisoning the people you care about," he sighs, trying not to let past memories plague him. There are too many people that he's had to make this sacrifice for.  
"Rick?"  
"Yeah?"  
"Are you saying all of this because you mean it...or because you're trying to make me feel bad so I'll stop manipulating you into having sex with me?" Morty asks honestly, a hint of a smile on his lips. Sitting there on the couch, tucked between a pillow and an old afghan, he looks more frail than he's ever been in his life. And even if Morty uses the guilt that Rick feels for that to his advantage, he still can't help but tell himself that all of this is his fault. Maybe he deserves to have Morty manipulate him.  
"I mean it," Rick promises.  
A darkness falls over Morty's face suddenly, clouding his expression like an impending storm. He clenches his teeth tight, digs his fingers hard into the couch cushions as his posture goes rigid, straight like he's been shocked and then limp all at once. Rick catches him before he can collapse forward, a mass of sweat and chills and pain.  
"Morty? Can you hear me?"  
"Rick," he groans, hand outstretched like he's grasping for relief itself. He's shaking like a leaf in the middle of autumn.  
"What happened? Are-Are you okay?"  
Hot tears slip down Morty's fevered cheeks, and Rick tries not to think about that time in the garage, about tears elicited by something other than the agony Morty is experiencing now.  
"I can't do this," Morty cries, fingers spasming wildly against Rick's arms. He's been trying to hold back for too long.  
"Morty, come on. Only a while longer."  
"No! Please. No more, Rick. I-I-I-I...I wanna go home. Please?"  
"Morty, you can't be on drugs for the rest of your life. I-It doesn't work that way."  
"Please," Morty pleads, not caring about the logistics, not caring about the fact that if he doesn't do this now, he might have to do it again someday. He can't take this anymore. He needs H more than he needs food or water or oxygen. "I need it, Rick. It hurts."  
"I know it hurts, Morty, but--"  
Morty is clenching his sweater now, burying his face in the soft fabric. "Please, please. I-I can be good; I-I'll do it less, even...I promise. I don't want to do this anymore."  
"Morty," Rick sighs. "It's not a-about being good. You have a problem."  
"I don't have a problem!" Morty insists. "I can...can manage it! Really, Rick, I--"  
"No, Morty," Rick says sternly.  
Morty reduces to wailing sobs, muffled declarations of hatred as he trembles against Rick, arms and legs jerking with pain every few seconds.  
It hurts to see his grandson like this. It hurts to know that this is his fault, and that the only way to reverse it involves more pain for Morty, the bearer of all of Rick's selfish mistakes through and through. It hurts to know that Rick has to see this for all of that guilt and hurt to finally settle inside of him, an undeniable truth that he is the King Midas of chaos. Everything he touches goes to hell.  
"I'm so tired, Rick," Morty whimpers, head pressed close to his heart.  
'You shouldn't be the one comforting him,' he tells himself harshly. 'You can't fix him. You'll only make him worse.'  
"I know, Morty," Rick murmurs, fingers carding through his grandson's drenched curls. "I'm sorry."  
☆  
Rick is exhausted.  
They're reaching the fifty hour mark on two hours of sleep each, Rick caught up in trying to figure out the appropriate time to steal away for a drink when Morty's head falls against his shoulder, his eyes shut but not relaxed.  
"Rick," he murmurs sleepily, petting his arm like a smitten old woman. "I want to go upstairs."  
"Then go upstairs," Rick says bluntly, his head lolling to the side so that his cheek is resting in Morty's hair. The TV seems like little more than colorful blurs.  
"I don't wanna..." Morty pauses to yawn, his tiny hand tremoring as he covers his mouth. "...be alone."  
"Ugh, Morty," Rick groans, more at the prospect of having to move than actually going upstairs with his grandson.  
"You can lay with me," Morty suggests cutely, his face nuzzling into Rick's chest once again. It's muffled when he finishes his proposal. "I-I don't even care...if you sleep."  
At the prospect of sleep, Rick can sacrifice a little muscle movement.  
"Okay, okay," he grumbles, resting Morty's head against the back of the couch as he stands, hand outstretched for support. Morty grasps it weakly, bracing the other hand against the armrest as he tries, quite poorly, to stand. Rick has to support most of his weight to keep him from falling. "Jesus, kid. You okay?"  
"Not exactly a shining moment for me," Morty smirks, snaking his arms around Rick's neck. "My legs feel like jelly."  
Rick stares at the wall over Morty's head for a second before he can work up his nerve. "Should I carry you?"  
Morty chuckles lightly, his forehead pressed into the crook of Rick's neck. He's too tired to be proud. "Sure."  
Rick bends down to scoop up Morty's legs from behind, cradling him against his chest like a small child. Morty had been out cold the last time he had held him like this, or, at the very least, too high to remember. With the both of them conscious, the concept itself is a little more embarrassing.  
Morty's smarmy commentary does little to help the situation. "Bridal style? I'm flattered," he murmurs, eyes fluttering dramatically.  
"How is it that even like this, y-you still find a way to be a smart ass?" Rick complains.  
"You make it easy."  
"Sorry. Next time I'll remind myself to-to leave you on the floor."  
Rick twists around to open the door in front of them, his shoulder mere inches from clipping the back of Morty's head.  
"Oh, i-it's like one of those...cheesy romance novels, where the-the guy carries the girl into his bedroom," Morty quips, his expression unengaged. Rick is convinced that his smart mouth has taught itself to run on autopilot.  
"Yeah, except for the part where we-we're both guys and I'm your grandfather," Rick points out.  
"Didn't stop us a couple of days ago."  
Rick lays Morty on top of the comforter and rounds the bed to take the spot next to him, his muscles easily sinking into the mattress.  
"You really seem to enjoy bringing that up. I'm star-starting to think y-you have a weird little crush on me, Morty."  
"Oh no," Morty frowns, pressing the side of his face into the pillow. "Are you telling me we-we didn't do it because we love each other?"  
"Sorry to shatter your dreams."  
"And just when I was planning the wedding," he sighs, fake disappointment evident on his face.  
"Yeah? What did you have in mind?" Rick smiles, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow to block out the light from the window.  
"You were gonna wear a-a black tux...w-with a boutonniere made of...those blue flowers from Pexton Zeta 9."  
"Very tasteful," Rick agrees.  
"And I was supposed to...wear a white dress, with a big, poofy skirt and a huge train."  
"Any detail?"  
"Definitely lace. And my bouquet would match...the boutonniere, of course. Maybe I'd accent it with...fucking, succulents or something," he brainstorms, lacing his twitching fingers behind his head.  
"Do we have thematic colors?"  
Morty stages a gasp, one eyebrow arched in mock horror. "Any proper wedding _has_  to have thematic colors! Ours would be blue and green, of course."  
"Of course," Rick repeats.  
"And we'd have the wedding in the woods on Triorballon, near those big cliffs over the ocean...right when the sun sets and the-the sky gets all--y'know--all orange and purple, when it looks like...like a watercolor painting."  
"No one is-is gonna be able to top that wedding, Morty. That'll be the wedding of the god damn century," Rick compliments.  
"Yeah," Morty sighs sadly. "Too bad it's not gonna happen now. If only we had-had _made love_ , then we could--"  
"Gross, Morty," Rick laughs, nudging him in the shoulder. He's soaked with sweat again.  
"That's not what you were saying when--"  
"Yeah, yeah. That's not what I was saying when we were fucking. I get it."  
"Rick?" Morty murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding unsure.  
"Yeah?"  
"Did you hate it?" He asks, one eye open to catch Rick's expression. "...having sex with me?"  
Rick fidgets a little as he searches for words that he's not quite sure even he can convey. The problem doesn't lie within the answer, because he _didn't_  hate it. More so, the issue is what that answer means. Isn't there something to be said for someone who not only agreed to a deal in which he had to have sex with his underage grandson, but also _enjoyed_  said end of the bargain? What does that say about his character, about his will?  
"Rick?"  
"No, Morty," he huffs. "I didn't hate it."  
"Did you like it? I-I mean...it wasn't bad?"  
Rick scratches his head, seemingly lost in thought. "It wasn't bad."  
"But you didn't like it?" A part of him almost appears displeased.  
"I didn't say that, either. It was..." A lot of things. A lot of things that say a lot of other things about exactly the kind of person that Rick is. Maybe he is worse than his father.  
"You don't have to--"  
"It was good," Rick interrupts. "I liked it, okay? Is that wh-what you wanted me to say?"  
"So..." Morty bites his lip. "If I asked you...to do it again, would you?"  
"Now?" Rick asks, clearly flabbergasted.  
"Not now, dumbshit," Morty snaps. "I'm in enough pain without you breaking my hips in half." He takes a deep breath to collect himself. "Just...y'know. In the future, if I asked wi-without offering anything in return...would you say yes?"  
"Does it matter?"  
"Yes."  
Rick wants to pretend that he doesn't know the answer. He wants to pretend that he would have the will to do the right thing...but he wouldn't, and he doesn't.  
"Maybe," he replies.  
Morty gives him a look. "Maybe?"  
"Probably."  
"Probably maybe or probably yes?" Rick can't find out for the life of him why the kid needs his answer to be so specific, like their entire relationship depends on whether or not Rick would be willing to fuck him again.  
"Probably yes," he admits.  
"Yeah," Morty breathes, both eyes finally closed. "Me too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took a little longer than the others cause I'm going through some shit. Sorry if some of that seeped into the chapter and became more depressing than originally intended, lmao.  
> Anyways, work has been slowly draining my life source so by the time I finished this I never read the collective chapter as a whole. I reread the individual parts so many times as I wrote them I thought I was gonna die.  
> So I hope you enjoyed reading and everything flowed well! Comments are always welcome and appreciated. Thanks for reading! ♡


	13. Scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick wants something else. Morty won't give without taking.

The expanse of bright orange sky stretches across the horizon in shimmering hues, enveloping a forest of trees not so different from what can be found back in Washington. Their branches twist toward the thinning clouds like a sea of hands, the needles so dense that they're almost indiscernable. The scene is both familiar and alien to Morty, like his worlds before and after Rick have finally merged into something comprehensible. If only he could do the same.  
They're sitting on the back porch of the condo, Rick reclined in the only chair and Morty laid out by the stairs, neither speaking. Morty keeps his hands calmed in his lap, glad that the tremors and spasms invading his bones have finally ceased, leaving only insistent aching in their wake. Compared to what he's endured in the past few days, it's a welcome difference.  
"Rick," he says finally, interrupting the relaxed silence. "Who owns this house?"  
Rick looks at him like he's just spoken in tongues. "Me, obviously," he answers, as if this doesn't open room for a hundred different questions.  
Morty returns his expression tenfold. "But you live with us."  
"What, do you think I w-was homeless before that or something?" Rick snorts.  
Morty's mouth turns into a grim line as he stares at Rick, looking for something in his expression that he'll never see. Why can he never be kidding about the things that end up pissing off Morty the most?  
"That was the-the impression you gave when you told Mom you had nowhere else to go," he explains slowly, like maybe Rick is too stupid to understand how absolutely crazy the whole thing sounds.  
"Oh, yeah," Rick recalls, resting his arms behind his head. "I lied."  
"Dare I ask why?" Morty sighs.  
"M-Maybe I just wanted to be with my family, _Morty._  That-That okay with you? Is it cool for me to-to-to want to play the grandfather role for awhile? Or are you gonna bitch about that too?"  
Morty pinches the bridge of his nose like listening to Rick turn the tables is giving him a migraine. He doesn't even know why he humors the old man anymore. "You've never heard of a visit?"  
"Why--Who the fuck has time to go back and forth? I-I have shit to do."  
"So let me get this straight," Morty clarifies. "You had enough time to move into our house and turn me into a full time lackey at the-the expense of my education and social life, but not the time to drop in and say hi?"  
"Come on, Morty. Don't bullshit me. You never had a social life."  
" _That's_ what you got out of that question?"  
"I-I'm just saying, kid. You have to actually have something for it to be expendable."  
Morty takes a deep breath, content to drop the subject where it may lie. Fighting with Rick is like yelling at the sun to stop shining. You can argue with it until you're blue in the face, but the sun is going to keep doing exactly what it's meant to do because it doesn't give a single fuck about anybody's opinion.  
"When are we going home?"  
"Depends," Rick shrugs, his eyes staring far off into the distance.  
"On?"  
"I-I don't know, Morty, a lot of things. Your symptoms, how much I trust you not to run off and get high as soon as we get back…" He coughs then, trying to mask his next words in a way that has Morty suspicious in between the pause. "…whether or not you'll let me give you a-a new tracker..."  
"It's not going to happen," Morty says firmly. It's a response that needs no thought. If he gives Rick an inch, he'll take a mile.  
"Come on, Morty, it's just for--"  
"I know what it's for," Morty interrupts. "And my answer is no."  
Rick gets up from the chair, stretching out his lengthy limbs as the sun dips behind the treeline. "Look, kid," he says, making Morty scoot over as he takes a seat beside him. "There are too-too many things back home that could set you off. After everything you just went through, are you sure you want the possibility o-of one little mistake to ruin all of that?"  
"Don't try to make this out to be something it isn't," Morty chides. "If I say yes, then any time I do something you don't like, or go somewhere that y-you don't agree with, you can come find me. The-The way it is now…I-I mean, if we got into a fight, I could go somewhere to get some space. If I say yes to the tracker, then you're taking that away from me. It's like…like I'm carrying around a piece of you everywhere I go."  
"Morty, your idea of getting space is running away with the guy that I had to st-stop from raping you to get high on drugs that could kill you. I don't really feel like that's an option that you should be worried about having. I'm only going to use it for-for emergencies."  
"Then…" Morty knows it's a long shot, knows the idea will probably only set Rick off, but...fuck it. He's no more blind to his sway over Rick than the old man is of his over him. "I want one."  
Rick is quick to misunderstand because his personality has set him up to believe that he should get his way. "Really? I thought I'd at least have to--"  
"No, Rick," Morty cuts in, stopping him before his ego can inflate further. "I meant one for you."  
Rick is staring at Morty like he's just told him he thinks the earth is flat. "What?"  
"Jeez, Rick, i-is your hearing getting bad already?" Morty jests nervously, fidgeting his hands in his lap.  
"Morty…"  
"It's just for emergencies, right? I-I-I mean, it seems fair to me. If we-we both get trackers, then--"  
"Morty, I'm only asking you to get a tracker because out of the two of us, you're the one who-who seems to be stuck in between a rock and a hard place more often than not."  
"You do stupid things too!" Morty protests, the hands that were once anxious now turning to angry fists at his sides. "Why is it okay for-for you to ask me to get one bu-but I can't ask you? It's either a-a-a big deal or it isn't. You don't get to change the-the story when it's your free will I'm asking for."  
"It has nothing to do with free will!"  
"Then why won't you get one?" Morty demands, his voice taunting.  
Rick knows why. He knows why, but he can't say it…because it's commitment. It's the idea of not only giving something of his to someone else, but trusting them not to abuse it. In his past relationships he's never even let the semblance of the thought materialize in his partner's head, never trusted them enough to allow them something so important. If he gives this to Morty then he's giving him more than he's ever given anyone else in his entire life, and the thought scares him. How could he trust anyone with so much power besides himself?  
"You might as well be asking me t-t-to put a ring on my finger," Rick huffs.  
"Well lucky for you, you're the experienced party in that department," Morty fires back.  
"Yeah, except for the part where it wasn't a literal fucking tracking device."  
"So your commitment issues are-are a better reason for you to not get one than me wanting to be able to get away from you when I need to? Th-That's kind of ironic, don't you think?"  
Not for the first time, Morty has hit the nail on the head. Rick is doing exactly what he's always done: wanting to keep his freedom while expecting another person to give up a part of theirs. He really is starting to act like his father.  
"I don't know, Morty. I just…"  
"Rick." Morty slips his hand over his then, his small fingers gripping the calloused skin underneath them and then settling in the spaces between Rick's fingers, like holding hands with his grandfather is as easy as breathing air. "Have a little faith."  
Rick's first instinct is to pull away, to release Morty's hand and put as much space between them as possible, but he doesn't. Maybe he's just happy to see Morty do something besides explode. Maybe that's just another lie he's telling himself.  
"Do you have faith in me?"  
Morty grimaces and kicks the back of his feet against the porch, watching them swing over the pinkish sand with mild interest. "I-I let you bring me here, didn't I?"  
"Yeah," Rick breathes deeply, his eyes trained on something far off in the distance. "You did."  
"I'm not asking you to-to trust me, Rick. I'm asking you to meet me halfway."  
For most, it's asking too little. For Rick, it's asking too much.  
And yet, perhaps stupidly, Morty hopes. He hopes because hope is the only thing keeping him ignorant enough to ignore the truths that will kill him.  
"Okay," Rick allows, running his fingers through the mess of his hair.  
Morty squeezes his hand.  
☆  
Morty should've felt triumphant with the agreement, should've just accepted the small victory and then let the reality of what was to come set in, but he notices that as the minutes tick by and the prospect of each of them having a tracker comes closer, Rick's attitude seems to increasingly sour, and the feeling of pride within him fades.  
Rick is tweaking the surface of the chips on the same table where he took Morty's virginity, one hand clasped tightly around his flask as if it's the only thing anchoring him in the moment. This is the type of drinking that he usually reserves for the aftermath of particularly consequential mistakes. It makes Morty nervous.  
"Maybe you should slow down?" He suggests, trying to control the quivering in his voice that ensues when Rick is especially drunk. He has, after all, bared the harshness of his grandfather's temper during one too many a blackout. There are scars inside of him from such instances that run much deeper than the mere physical.  
Rick takes a long pull from the flask as if willing Morty to stop him, his eyes set in a permanent scowl that makes Morty's insides feel prickly.  
"I'm recovering," Morty reminds him.  
"Th--uhh--at's fine, Morty," Rick smiles, pointing the flask toward his grandson's chest. "Y-Y-You can just-just go to--go on another bender a-and then once your boyfriend beats the h-holy hell out of you and it's lost it's luster, you can-can just come back and give me another ultimatum. Ex-Except maybe next time, _you_  can fuck _me_."  
"You really wanna do this right now?" Morty asks, his voice all airy and bored.  
Rick grits his teeth. "No, Morty. I-I would literally--urp--rather be doing anything else."  
"Then go!" Morty insists, one hand outstretched to shove the flask away from him. "No one is forcing you to-to be here."  
"I'm here be-because--"  
"Because why? Because I gave you an ultimatum?" Morty mocks.  
"Yes!"  
"It was a _compromise_. And here's the thing about compromises, Rick: no one fucking makes you agree to them," Morty hisses. "So if you could stop acting like I-I bound and gagged you to get you here, it would make this whole thing a-a-a lot easier for the both of us."  
Rick takes another swallow of liquor and sets the flask down on the table, his expression indignant.  
"And maybe stop drinking in front of me."  
"Are you my fucking wife or something?" Rick gripes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.  
Morty surprises him by making a joke. Morty is always surprising him lately.  
"I didn't plan an elaborate wedding for nothing," he says, and Rick, though he wants to resign to being stony and angry, finds that the liquor loosens him up a little bit. He laughs.  
"Y-you're right," he agrees, his voice amused. "I'm sorry, honey. I-I'll be a-a-a better husband."  
And even though Morty knows that he's playing around, Rick calling him a stupid pet name sends a sort of warm feeling up his spine. He tells himself to ignore it. He is, after all, still just a kid who lusts for the attention he was neglected during childhood. If it were someone other than Rick, he's sure he would feel the same.  
At least, that's what he tells himself.  
"That's what _all_  men say," Morty sighs, his expression all fake annoyance and frustration.  
"All men, huh? Y-You been sleeping around on me?" Rick smirks.  
"Well maybe if you satisfied my needs I wouldn't have to!"  
Morty giggles around thoughts of his parents and hopes of never becoming like them. After watching the disaster that was their relationship, he's not even sure that marriage is in the cards for him...not that anything ceremoniously average ever is.  
"Oh I don't satisfy you, is-is that it?" Rick leans across the space between them to shove lightly at Morty's shoulder, the both of them unknowingly fighting the urge to lean into the touch.  
"No," Morty murmurs with challenging eyes. "You don't."  
Neither knows who initiates the kiss, but it happens quickly and without thought, an unconscious desire spoken between two pairs of lips.  
Rick is drunk, his mouth tastes like whiskey and heat, his hands are unwavering on Morty's back. He affectionately strokes the outline of his grandson's shoulder blades, his spine, makes the sensitive spots on his sides tickle with stimulation.  
And it feels strange, these urgencies to touch each other always aligned like two ends of the same magnet meeting by coincidence, held together so closely that both are surprised that their atoms aren't combining. Neither protests, neither attempts to question the motive behind the attraction or how it works. Neither are concerned. In these moments there is simply the two of them, hands and lips and tongues the only way to communicate the things between them that cannot be spoken or explained.  
Morty chokes back a moan when Rick pushes a hand under his shirt, traces the hills and valleys of his ribcage with a delicate precision. He has no idea where this is going, how much control he can force into his muscles before he's doing something that he'll find the sense to regret later.  
He doesn't get to find out.  
A knock at the door startles them from their reverie. Rick pushes Morty away like his skin has suddenly set ablaze, and--even though it certainly feels like it--Morty is entirely sure that he is not on fire. Unless, of course, the fire is invisible…or metaphorical.  
"Grandpa? Morty? Are you in there?"  
"Y-Yeah, Summer, come in," Rick offers, donning the blasé expression that typically dominates his features. Morty knows he isn't faring half as well.  
"Mom wants to know if you guys are cool with going out to dinner," Summer asks, swinging the door open with little force. Luckily for Morty, she's too busy texting on her phone to notice his poor attempt at a poker face.  
Rick kicks back in his chair, shrugging his shoulders indifferently like he wasn't just trying to swap tongues with his grandson. "Sure, why not? Morty?"  
Morty startles from his mini panic attack and tries to will the redness from his cheeks, his eyes sort of far off as he peers upward. To his dismay, Summer has decided to focus her attention on something other than her iPhone.  
"Uh-uh, yeah! Sounds fun," Morty smiles, but it falters a little halfway through. Rick is going to have to give him some serious coaching on the art of deceit.  
Summer gives him a strange look and glances over her shoulder like she's hoping she'll find a good excuse to leave. In the end, she decides to keep it simple.  
"Alright, I'll go let her know. She wants to leave at like, six? Yeah, six. Wear something…" She gives the two of them a once over and gestures her free hand in indication. "…that isn't _that_."  
"What's wrong w-w-with this? I-I pull this look _off_ , Summer," Rick argues.  
"First of all," Summer sighs. "It's not a _look_ …and second, so do, like, millions of other Ricks. Wear something nice."  
"I-I'll make sure he wears something decent," Morty promises, looking as natural as he can given the circumstances. "Thanks, Summer."  
"Yeah, make sure he's ready _on time_ , too. If we wait more than fifteen minutes, Mom and I will go by ourselves," she warns in parting, shutting the door behind her.  
"So you're my babysitter now?" Rick scoffs.  
"You _need_  a babysitter."  
"And you need an acting coach. Seriously, Morty? That was painful to watch."  
"I know," Morty groans, dragging his hand down the side of his face. "I thought my heart was gonna break out of my chest."  
"Y-You just need to chill, dawg. Follow-Follow Grandpa's lead."  
Morty rolls his eyes. "I-It's really not that easy."  
"Look, you just--"  
"Rick?" Morty interrupts, no longer interested in being coached on how to act cool after partaking in incestuous lip locking.  
"Yeah?"  
"The trackers?"  
Rick's face falls a little. "Oh. Right. They're done."  
Morty purses his lips and eyes the chips in front of Rick. They seem smaller than he remembers. "How do we put them in?"  
Rick pulls a surgical scalpel from the bench and drops it into Morty's hands. "Better than a pocketknife."  
"I'll have you know that that pocketknife stabbed a-a drug dealer," Morty laughs. It really does sound like more of a joke than something that happened only a couple of weeks ago.  
"Yeah, yeah, you're a-a-a real gangster. You wanna put yours in yourself?"  
"Won't it be hard to make an incision from that angle?" He asks, eyes trained pointedly on Rick.  
"You just want to put mine in."  
"Kind of, yeah," he admits unabashedly, cracking his knuckles in front of him.  
Rick begrudgingly pulls off his lab coat and rolls up the sleeve of his sweater, passing one of the trackers over to Morty. "Make it about two inches and push the-the chip under the skin."  
"Ew."  
"You were the one who-who wanted to do it," Rick reminds him.  
"Yeah, yeah. Hold still." Morty holds his hand firm on Rick's bicep and steadies the scalpel against his skin, pressing lightly enough to not break skin. "Ready?"  
Rick feels like he's about to take a leap from a cliff. "Good thing I'm drunk."  
The blade presses inward.  
"You made it too big," Rick notes as Morty retrieves the chip. A steady line of scarlet drips down his arm.  
"Oh, I know," Morty acknowledges. "I wanted to leave a scar."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy moly have I had a busy fucking month. Who would've thought that working at a bible belt thrift store could be *gasp* exhausting? Sithis save me.  
> It's been awhile meine freunde! I actually had most of this written and then accidentally deleted it. Puts a bit of a damper on the writing when you know that you've done it before. It's fine though! This chapter turned out well and I enjoyed writing it, even if I had to push myself a little!  
> So sorry for the wait and I hope you can forgive me. If you're ever looking for updates on the story you can scour my tumblr by the same username, I usually throw out a progress post if it's taking too long.  
> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed! See you in Chapter Fourteen. ☆


	14. Humanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty deals with guilt. Rick tries to distract him.

Morty grimaces into a disheveled pile of clothing thrown haphazardly atop the only dresser that's surface space is not solely occupied by gadgets and parts to inventions that have yet to be created.  
"Please tell me you have more than this in the drawers," he practically begs, eyebrows drawn so tight that he's beginning to feel a tension headache in the corners of his temples.  
"If I put clothing in them then I would have no space for booze," Rick explains from the cot, his expression disinterested. "I-I don't even know why I have to dress up. It's just dinner, right? Since when is dinner a-a-a gala event? Are people just looking for excuses to dress up nowadays? Why-Why is their hour's worth of vanity my problem?"  
"Rick, if you know what's good for you, you'll shut up," Morty sighs.  
"Ooh, what are ya gonna do? Smother me in my own pillow or something? I-I like the irony in that, Morty. You're a true-true visionary."  
Morty pulls a black sweater from the pile and examines it, eyes squinting in the limited light. It looks too nice to be Rick's. "Do you have a fashionable boyfriend leaving his sweaters in your room? Tell him to stop forgetting them here. They-They'll probably get some sort of flesh eating bacteria on them."  
"Morty, you and I both know that I keep the flesh eating bacteria in the garage."  
"I'll make sure to warn him next time he stops by." Morty throws the sweater back at Rick, watching with mild satisfaction when it falls just shy of his waiting hand and pelts him in the chest.  
"What? Y-You don't think I can own nice clothing?" Rick asks, sliding his worn coat off of his shoulders.  
"Considering you almost always wear the same thing, no," Morty answers, holding up a pair of jeans. "Y'know, I don't even know what you _look_  like in jeans."  
"Maybe I just-just look so good in them that I-I can't wear them every day. Having--being swarmed by adoring fans isn't efficient, Morty; it interrupts my work."  
"We'll see about that," he smiles, doubt evident in his expression when he hands the pants to Rick. "I gotta go get changed. You better be-be waiting for me in the hallway in ten minutes or I swear on my life I'll kick your ass into the next dimension."  
"Joke's on you, Morty. The next dimension is filled with hotties."  
"Ten minutes," Morty repeats, throwing Rick a warning glance before shutting the door behind him.  
He takes a deep breath once he's in the safety of his own room, leaning against the wall as he collects his thoughts. His bicep aches with the familiar sting of a fresh wound, sends a wave of panic through every last pore. He hasn't been able to think properly for the last hour, the fog in his head an unconscious mechanism to ward off the dread that's plaguing him now. He still feels the shock of the blade, the sharp, searing pain underneath his skin as Rick pushed the chip into the cut, the blood warm and sticky on his arm. It's a promise that he quite literally carries inside of him, and the very nature of that thought overwhelms him. Why is he letting Rick back in?  
He doesn't want to think about it, wants only to get through the evening without incident and fall into another restless sleep, darkness swallowing him long enough to numb the mysteries that he himself cannot answer.  
He dons a button up from the closet and straightens the curls on his head that are rarely compliant, thoughts hazey and unfocused. It's been a long time since he's found good reason to dress up, but as he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror, it feels as if he's prepared himself for a funeral. Perhaps it's for the death of the will that he had so carefully built when Rick left him. He tries not to think of the self-loathing eulogy he would write in it's honor as he meets Rick in the hallway.  
"You're on time," he comments in surprise, smoothing a small wrinkle in his shirt so that Rick won't see the emptiness that commands his expression.  
"Gold star for me. How do I look? Am I pulling off a-a _look_?" He asks, toying with the hem of his sweater. "I really hate this generation," he adds under his breath, glaring into the material like it might come alive and smother him.  
"You look fine," Morty agrees a moment too soon. It's enough for Rick to realize that he hasn't really looked at him.  
"Morty, if the shirt could get any straighter, it would be your dad."  
"Sorry," he mumbles, forcing himself to finally look at Rick. And then it sort of clicks like it always does when Morty is least looking for the answer. Seeing Rick all dressed up and uncomfortable, looking like a petulant god among men, Morty feels that familiar tightness in his chest that he can't explain. It's a sensation that breaches the mere physical, an indescribable emotion that courses through his veins as strongly as his blood, a feeling that he can't find anywhere or with anyone else. It's precisely what keeps him coming back to Rick, time and time again...a manifesto of the mind and body that not even he can explain the likes of. In moments like these, Morty becomes a tourist inside of his own body, only able to watch as he does and says things that he'll only be able to wonder at later, berate himself for when it drives him further down the path of no return. Rick is the most dangerous drug that Morty has ever taken.  
"Really," he reassures him, trying to will away the stars in his eyes. "You look…good."  
Rick's eyes crinkle at the corners when he smirks, towering over his grandson at an utterly intimidating twelve inches that Morty often forgets about until they're within close proximity of each other.  
"Just good?" He murmurs.  
"I, u-umm..." Every breath that Morty takes feels dizzying. Is it possible to suffocate from Rick's gaze alone? God, he hopes not.  
"Be honest, Morty," he coaxes, fingers reaching into that space between them.  
It's not until the last second that Morty bats him away. "Not here," he chastises, taking a step backward as if trying to break free from Rick's gravitational pull.  
"Prude."  
"Funny. Last month I was a floozy," Morty smiles. "Why is it that I'm only a-a prude when it's _you_  that I'm not touching? Hmm?"  
"I'm gonna starve if I have to wait another minute!" Summer whines from the bottom of the stairs.  
"Coming!" Morty shouts, watching with a hint of amusement as Rick stuffs his hands in his pockets and huffs like a sullen child. "Ready?"  
"Saying yes insinuates th-that I wanted to go in-in the first place."  
"Walk down the stairs, Rick."  
"Are you sure that _you're_  not the grandfather?"  
"Rick," Morty sighs.  
"Fine, fine, I'm going."  
☆  
"It's nice to finally do something as a family again," Beth gushes, swirling the wine around her glass before taking a shallow sip. "I missed this."  
"I-I'm sure we _all_  missed this, honey," Rick schmoozes.  
And even though they're on their own fucked up version of good terms, it still makes Morty a little sick to see Rick play his mom so easily. Nothing about his words ever seem genuine when he's speaking to her.  
"I'm just glad that you two finally made up. I was starting to think that you were going to hate each other forever," Beth quips, smiling between the two of them. Morty's heart twists inside of his chest.  
"Y-You know how it is between Morty and I," Rick says, waving his hand as if to explain the entirety of their senseless, fucked up relationship.  
Morty swallows hard, hands fidgeting beneath the tablecloth at an alarming pace. He hasn't seen much of Beth or Summer since his deal with Rick. He's starting to think there's a reason for that.  
"Morty, are you okay?"  
"Yeah! I-I-I'm great! Just uh, y'know, feeling a-a-a little jittery still. Sorry." It's not a complete lie, at least.  
"Oh, honey, you don't have to apologize," Beth frowns. "I know how hard this has been for you. I think you're being really strong."  
Morty combs his fingers through his curls before he can think not to, hoping that if he busies his hands enough they'll eventually give up on making him look like the guilty party in an interrogation room. "Uh, thanks, it's uh--it hasn't been easy."  
"Well I'm glad you had Dad there to get you through. That's his watch you're wearing, right? I'm glad you're actually using it."  
Morty glares down at the watch like it's a dead giveaway to his secret. When did he even put the fucking thing on?  
"You're wearing my watch?" Rick yanks Morty's arm to his side of the table and examines his wrist in the light. "Oh. That's uh, the old one."  
"I gave it to Morty for his birthday," Beth admits. "You don't mind, do you?"  
"S'not like I'm gonna use it," Rick shrugs, releasing Morty from his grasp. "I have enough as it is."  
"What are they all for?" Beth wonders.  
Luckily for Morty, the two shoot off into a pointless conversation about the different varieties of watches that Rick bothers to track time with until the food arrives, turning the conversation away from he and Rick and whatever those inquiries might entail. But even with the few blessed moments to collect himself in between, he still can't seem to calm himself down enough to think straight. How could he have not prepared himself for this? Had he really been living outside of reality for so long that the prospect of facing his family after doing what he and Rick had done never crossed his mind?  
He feels sick, much too sick to eat, much less keep up with the turn of conversation around him. It feels as if his head has been screwed on the wrong way and all of his thoughts are spiraling backward, like his mind is retreating rather than following it's typical train of thought. He's definitely going to throw up.  
"I-I gotta--" He nearly chokes, shoving up from the table before he can offer any true explanation. He's too frantic to notice that he's sort of caused a scene, too dizzy to see the concerned stares of his family or hear his mother call to him as he hauls ass to the nearest restroom and forces all of his anxieties out through his stomach.  
The bathroom is cold and bright and smells like bleach, makes Morty's head spin when he lifts his head up from the toilet to make sure that he's finally alone, finally has enough space between himself and everyone else to clear his head of all of the awful, ugly shit churning inside of him like a relentless sea of guilt.  
It was as if he and Rick had been living in their own universe entirely, numbed from the rest of the world by drugs and anger and lust that clouded their judgment and lulled them into a self-chosen ignorance, led them under a promise that the only thing that mattered was the two of them and the feelings they had for each other, senseless and toxic as they may be. And really, hadn't that always been their problem? When it was just Rick and Morty, there was no room in the realm of possibility for anyone else.  
The door creaks open from behind him, the sound of footsteps on the tile an impending cue that Morty is no longer the only occupant of this clinic-like restroom. He doesn't even have to turn to see who it is. Rick will always show up when Morty wants him the least.  
"You okay?" He asks gruffly, worn leather shoes peeking underneath the divider.  
Morty wipes the spit from his lower lip and slumps against the wall. "Short of freaking the-the fuck out, I'm just grand."  
"Morty, y-you really gotta stop thinking about it so much."  
"Am I supposed to pretend that it never happened?" He demands, his voice hoarse. "I look at Mom and all I-I-I can think is, 'Oh my god, I fucked her dad. I fucked my mom's dad. What kind of-of person does that make me?'."  
"Christ, kid, not so f-fucking loud. You think we're the only people that exist?"  
"That's the problem!" He cries. "Ninety-five percent of the time, we act like _we are_  the only people that exist. I spend the other five percent freaking the fuck out o-over what the means. Isn't this whole thing...I mean, i-it's fucked up, right? We're fucked up."  
"What do you care about fucked up, Morty? You and-and me, we've seen more fucked up shit in a day than most people can stomach in a lifetime," Rick murmurs, his voice heated. "You were the one th-that--the one who insisted on the whole thing. How are you ju-just gonna realize how bad the-the whole thing looks now?"  
"It was easy when I didn't have to-to-to look my mom in the eye every day knowing what we did!"  
"Jesus Christ, open the door."  
And Morty doesn't want to, not really, but he already knows as well as anyone else that Rick will get his way whether the opposing party allows it or not...even if that means breaking open a shoddy bathroom door in a public restroom without the slightest semblance of hesitation.  
He twists up to pull the lock before resuming his sorry position on the floor, eyebrows knitted tightly when he peers up at Rick in all of his blasé glory, like arguing with his grandson over the guilt he's feeling about them having sex is just another mild annoyance to add to his day. It doesn't help Morty's nerves when he proceeds to shut and lock the door behind him.  
"What do you want me to say, Morty?" He murmurs, the words all deep and throaty in his chest. "Sorry we had sex, let's pretend i-i-it never happened until we do it again?"  
"Rick--"  
"I'm not an idiot, Morty. Y-You think that we'll both just forget about this? That we can move on w-with our lives and that you'll never make another pass at me or vice versa? You'll--you're gonna feel like-like absolute shit about this, Morty. And then you're gonna wake up the next day a-and decide that you wanna jump my bones and none of what you're feeling now is gonna matter. If guilt and regret was what was gonna stop you, then what you and I did, Morty, it never would have happened in the first place."  
The realization of that hits Morty much heavier than anything he was feeling just moments before. Knowing that things like guilt are no longer enough to stop him from doing things that could destroy the entire foundation of his family makes him feel like a large part of what makes him a functioning member of society has been destroyed entirely, like he's straying further and further away from the very principles that bind him to the earth. He feels selfish. He feels empty. He feels relieved.  
"Christ," he whispers, the soft tone of his own words echoing back into his ears. "I-I really am just like you, aren't I?"  
"It's not so bad," Rick shrugs, crouching down beside him so that their knees are touching. There's not enough room to get away even if Morty wanted to.  
"That's the worst part," Morty muses, eyes tracing patterns on the tile. "Knowing that I don't feel as bad as I probably should."  
"There are better things to worry about."  
"Like?"  
Rick stretches his hand to touch the collar of Morty's shirt, fingers dangerously close to the place where fabric meets skin. "Like how we're gonna get out of this bathroom quick enough to-to not raise any suspicions."  
Morty glances up, notices that dazed look on Rick's face as well as he knows it on his own. And he knows, knows he should say no, knows he should shove Rick away and join his family back at the dinner table and pretend that none of this ever happened…but he can't help but pine for that fleeting moment of calm in the middle of the storm. For a few short minutes, he wants to feel something other than the self-hatred gnawing at his bones.  
"Five minutes," he says, so quietly that he's not entirely sure he's said it until Rick leans over to bring their lips together. It's hot in such a small space, and for a split second he's worried that he's going to get dangerously sweaty, but then Rick is leaning close to his ear, hot breath caressing the side of Morty's neck enough to send a sharp twist of pleasure through his stomach.  
"Y-You look so stupidly cute all-all dressed up; it's making me question my sanity," he hums, pressing his mouth underneath the curve of his jaw. "You really--you piss me off, y'know that?"  
Morty snakes an arm around Rick's neck to pull him closer, fingers burying themselves into his hair when Rick drags his tongue down the sensitive skin of his throat.  
"This is a bad idea," he breathes, his pupils blown wide when he tilts Rick's chin upward so that they're staring face to face.  
"Does it really matter?"  
"No," he smiles.  
Rick traces a careful finger down the front of Morty's shirt until he's hovering just above his belt, watching with obvious amusement when Morty's legs fall open, easy.  
"I can make it quick," he promises.  
"I think we're down to three minutes."  
"You should know better than to challenge me," Rick chides, so near that Morty can feel the rumble of the words in his chest.  
The sounds of Rick undoing his belt sound too loud between them, the zipper of his pants might as well be a stereo set to full volume, and none of it matters, not really, because Rick is touching him and his mind is blanking and he's so painfully hard that focusing on anything else feels like the world's greatest plight against him.  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he chants deliriously, hips twitching upwards as Rick strokes his cock quick and dirty, undoing the first two buttons of his shirt so he can press frantic kisses to his collarbone, the top of his chest.  
"Y-You gotta be quiet, Morty," he says, words muffled against his skin. "Don't want anyone coming in to-to investigate, do we?"  
The thought sends a panicked thrill up Morty's spine. Getting caught on the floor of a public restroom, gasping for air while his grandpa jacks him off and whispers dirty, rushed words into his ear…Morty may be straying further from his own humanity every day, but that's certainly something he'd like to keep on the list of 'have nots'.  
He buries his face into Rick's shoulder, breathes in the fabric to quiet his moans until he starts to feel dizzy from lack of oxygen in a way that has adrenaline leaking from every pore.  
"Rick," he mumbles, his voice thick with pleasure and need. "I-I-I'm really close, I--"  
Rick wastes no time hesitating. Before Morty can register the absence of Rick's shoulder to gasp into, he feels the heat of Rick's month wrapping around him, his tongue dragging on the underside of his shaft all slow and teasing, and then he's coming harder than he ever has, has to cover his mouth with his hands to keep himself from shouting and giving the two of them away. His limbs feel tight, feel numb as he seizes up on the floor, drool pooling at the corner of his mouth as he whines loudly into the safety of his palms, his mind going blank with pleasure.  
And then Rick lifts his head, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, and Morty's muscles finally begin to loosen, to sink into that tired, heavy feeling that always seems to calm him down.  
For a moment they just stare at each other, Morty trying to slow down his breathing enough to open his mouth to say something, anything. Finally, he says, "We should--we probably have to go back out now, huh?" His voice is almost mournful.  
"Yeah," Rick smirks, leaning over to fasten the buttons he had so hastily undone. He helps Morty up when he makes the move to stand, lets him lean against his chest until he's gained his bearings enough to move on his own. His hand reaches to cover Morty's when he goes for the lock, thumb stroking the taut skin over his veins. "To be continued?" He asks.  
Morty tilts his head back so that his curls are pressed against Rick's shoulder, his eyes sleepy. "We're going to need more than five minutes," he teases, biting his lip suggestively before pushing the door open in front of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter took so long I made sure to get this one done early for you, family!  
> I've been pretty busy with work and my birthday, but I really enjoyed writing this chapter so it was fairly easy to get done. I also was in the mood to write something smutty, and what better place to do that than in a public restroom, amirite?  
> Anyways, I hope you guys liked this chapter! As always, I appreciate comments and feedback and am eternally grateful for everyone who reads Need(les). Thanks a lot! See you in Chapter Fifteen (holy shmow we've come a long way)!


	15. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick asks Morty to drive him to a delivery.

"M-Morty, y-y-you gotta--you have t-to wake up, M-Morty it-it's important. We gotta go make a-a-a delivery, Morty. I-I need you to come with me--need, I-I need you to drive me there."  
Morty stares up at the ceiling for the few seconds it takes for his eyes to clear, trying to convince himself that beating Rick to death isn't worth the cleanup.  
"Why can't _you_ drive?" He dares, refusing to meet Rick's drunken gaze.  
"I-I can't--look, Morty, you just gotta drive, o-okay? Grandpa isn't--I'm not seeing too-too well right now, can't--I'm not focused enough to drive."  
"Might that have something to do with the fact that you're shit drunk?"  
"Come oooon, Morty," Rick whines. "We haven't been on an-an adventure since I-I got back. Just for-for old times sake, okay, buddy? It's a-a-a one time thing."  
"If I had a dollar for every time you said it was 'just a one time thing', I'd have enough money to afford all the alcohol that's probably in your bloodstream right now. Move," he sighs, glancing mournfully at his sheets before shoving Rick out of the way to find his shoes.  
"Y-You--You're the-the best, Morty, my-my favorite grandson, you know that?"  
"I'm your _only_  grandson," he grumbles, struggling to tie his laces with sleep-addled fingers.  
"Technically, Morty, I-I-I have infin-infinite grandsons. You don't have to-to be my favorite."  
"Then why don't you ask one of _them_  to drive you to your delivery?" He snaps, donning his jacket before leading Rick down the stairs and into the garage.  
"Hey, hey, don't get all--don't be all moody. You know you'll always be my favorite."  
Morty takes a deep breath as he slips into the driver's seat, reminds himself that now is certainly not the time to get all flattered over one of Rick's rare declarations of favoritism. He's too tired to think, much less worry about the conflicting and often senseless feelings he has for his annoying alcoholic of a grandfather.  
"Where to?" He asks, gaze locked behind him as he backs out of the garage. It's strange to realize how natural this still feels, to be driving the ship with Rick beside him, drunk and demanding and slurring his words so badly that it's hard to believe he's even speaking English.  
"Triorballon."  
Morty raises an unsure brow, glancing at Rick slumped against the window in the passenger seat. "Since when do you make deliveries to Triorballon?"  
"Special--it's a special delivery," Rick mumbles, eyes locked on the passing stars.  
"Okay, Mr. Special Delivery, what are we delivering?"  
"Why are you ask-asking so many questions? Let _me_  worry about what we're delivering. You just drive."  
"I-I swear to Christ, Rick, if this is another one of your weapon's deals--"  
"Chill ouuut, M-Morty," Rick interrupts, kicking his feet up on the dash. "I learned my-my lesson the last time. Why a-are you so grumpy? Is it cause--because of the other night?"  
"What about the other night?"  
"Y'know, cause when we-we got home from dinner there wasn't a good opportunity for us to-to fu--"  
"No, oh my god, please shut up," he pleads, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel.  
"I'm just saying," Rick starts, hands help up defensively. "I _did_  say that I was-was gonna finish what I started."  
"Rick, look at me," Morty demands, eyes wide and serious. "You _not_ fucking me is literally the least of my problems."  
"Are-Are you sure, Morty? Cause you know that I-I-I make it good," Rick teases, his expression smug.  
"Rick I just thought of your next great invention!" Morty exclaims, tapping the dash in excitement. "Make a fucking mute button for yourself."  
"Damn, son. I-I don't know when you suddenly be-became good at-at comebacks, but it's--I'm into it."  
Morty can only shake his head, decide to concentrate on the trip ahead so that he doesn't tear Rick's head off. It's too early in the morning to think about how fucked up all of this would sound to anyone besides them. He isn't about to start feeling like shit about himself at three in the morning. "I swear, Rick. If I ever start doing drugs again, it's because of _you_."  
"That-That's just cold, dawg. 'M just--it's just a-a-a little--just flirting, M-Morty. Y-You don't gotta get so-so up in arms about it."  
"You're not my boyfriend," he reminds him, turning a little too hard to the right in annoyance.  
"Fuck d-do you know about boyfriends, Morty? Y-Y-You stabbed your last one."  
☆  
"This isn't a delivery."  
"Technically, Morty, it's a stop on the _way_ to a delivery. I just thought--"  
"Don't, Rick. I don't need you to. I-I-I don't need you to do shit like this, okay? It's...fuck." Morty unbuckles his seat belt and throws the door open much too hard, hands shaking with frustration.  
"Where are you going?"  
"I need some air."  
The cliffside is uneven, even harder to navigate under the darkening sky. The ocean roars underneath him like an endless joke at his expense, the mist-heavy air making it feel sort of hard to breathe. They shouldn't be here, in this place reserved for another time, another life. Standing here now feels like tainting a memory.  
"Why do you-you get your panties in such a-a-a fucking twist every time I do something nice?" Rick demands from behind him, the slosh from his flask a telltale sign that's he's keeping it close at hand.  
"Because--"  
"Because me doing something meaningful taints y-your vision of the-the evil, cold hearted Rick that left you? I-I'm not some one-dimensional villain who--that's out to make your life a fucking nightmare, Morty. Aren't you the one who told me that-that y-you knew that better than anyone else?"  
Morty turns, trying to control the wetness pooling at the corners of his eyes. "Be-Because if you do stuff like this, I'll let you back in, a-and I just…I can't, Rick. I can't do it anymore."  
"So what should I do, Morty?" He's close; he's so close. The light of the setting sun is pooling in his eyes. "Tell me what I'm supposed to do."  
"Go back in time and don't leave, or-or take me with you, I-I just…Why couldn't it have been different? Why couldn't you ha-have just let me keep thinking that the sun shined out of your ass?"  
"Because it wouldn't have lasted, Morty."  
And it's true, perhaps one of the truest things that Rick has ever said. Whether it had been five months ago or five years in the future, Rick would have ended up betraying Morty's trust. Rick would've ended up destroying him. And that had always been their fate, hadn't it? To ruin each other so effectively that the only way to escape it was to both pull away and come closer?  
"I never wanted to love you." It's the first time Morty has said it, but it's not a confession, not really. Morty loving Rick is an undeniable fact of the universe. Water is wet; grass is green. It's such an obvious thing that it doesn't need to be spoken aloud.  
"That's the thing about me, Morty: nobody does."  
Morty slumps down to the ground, hugs his knees as he stares at the endless sky. "Everything is so fucked up now."  
"What did you envision?" Rick asks, one hand using Morty's shoulder for support as he sits down beside him.  
"I guess I just thought...I don't know, maybe I thought that things would never change, that ten years fr-from now we'd still be going on adventures and pretending that nothing we did ever mattered. I miss being stupid enough to believe that I'd never get to this point."  
"For what it's worth, Morty, most people are too stupid to believe that."  
"I wanted to be different," he sighs.  
"You _are_ different. Y-Y-You have more insight on life than like, ninety-nine percent of kids your age."  
"Don't reassure me," Morty mumbles broodingly, resting his chin on his forearms.  
"Right, right, sorry. Mean shit only...Y-You're a fucking--shit, Morty, you're stupid--so normal, just like a-a-a fucking--just an average Joe. So fucking terrible. Hate you," he chuckles. "Come on, kid. You'll be alright. Cheer up a little or I really _will_  start thinking you're just like me."  
"Ah, what, you're not gonna suck my dick this time?" Morty grins cheekily, nudging Rick with his elbow.  
"Sorry, Morty, dick sucking is reserved for-for anxiety attacks only."  
"O-Oh jeez, Rick, I'm feeling really anxious all of the sudden--"  
"Hey, an hour ago you would've been bitching if I even suggested it. We don't have time anyways, I-I really do gotta go drop off this delivery. You coming?"  
Morty rolls his eyes, offering Rick his hand to pull him up. "No, Rick, leave me here. I have to-to start setting up for our wedding."  
"Morty, Morty, I wouldn't let you do that alone. You wouldn't stock the bar with enough booze."  
"It's an alcohol-free wedding."  
"Never mind, give me back the ring."  
☆  
Hotels are usually a place of excitement for many people, a chance to escape the miseries of every day living and enjoy the more comfortable amenities that life has to offer. The Agorinium is certainly no exception to this luxury. With lofty, alien architecture and suites that many spend months on waiting lists to occupy for a single night alone, it's an intergalactic favorite that most can only dream of being able to afford. The one exception to *this* fantasy, however, is none other than Rick Sanchez himself.  
Morty has only been in the hotel one time before this, when Rick had a meeting that he was too high to drive himself to. The receptionists in the lobby had been kind enough to him while he waited, but the Agorinium still gave him an uncomfortable vibe that he couldn't explain. Them seeing his grandfather as a valued and highly respected guest only added to that feeling. No one respected Rick unless he had something to offer them.  
"I need you to-to wait upstairs when I--while I make this delivery, Morty."  
Morty props himself against the wall as they wait for the elevator, his face distraught. "Why can't I just wait in the lobby?"  
"Full truth, Morty: none of this is exactly legal. It-It's way too dangerous for you to be in plain sight. I can't--I don't want anyone to know I'm here."  
"The employees know you're here," Morty lets on.  
"The employees know that I keep their boss happy, and that's all they _need_ to know. Look, I got a-a-a suite on the sixteenth floor. I need you to wait there until I'm done, okay? Just do this for me without bitching."  
"I'm not bitching," Morty sighs. "I'm just  _asking_."  
"Yeah, well you're starting to make-make a habit of it. It's poor form." He hands Morty a black key card as they step into the elevator alone, accompanied only by some sort of jovial alien music that plays quietly through the speakers. "It's 326."  
"I'll be alone?"  
"Is that a problem?" Rick asks skeptically in return, fiddling with the combination of the suitcase in his left hand.  
"No. I'm just--I don't want there to be any surprises, y'know? I never know with you."  
"If you're asking if there are any estranged lovers walking around my suite eagerly awaiting my return, the-the answer is no."  
"I wasn't."  
Rick smirks. "It's okay to be-be a little jealous, Morty."  
"Why would I be jealous? You're _not_ my--"  
The elevator door opens then, a shrill ring announcing their stop at the thirteenth floor. Rick steps out before Morty has a chance to finish. "Don't get into any trouble," he warns in parting, readjusting his coat on his shoulders as the doors close behind him.  
"Idiot," Morty murmurs, habitually combing his fingers through his hair as he tends to do when he's nervous. "As if I'd ever be jealous."  
And he wouldn't, would he?  
He had never found himself jealous before, not of Unity or any of the other nameless faces that Rick had picked up during their adventures.  
Then again, he hadn't exactly been screwing Rick, either.  
So if he _did_  find some devoted lover wandering around Rick's personal suite, waiting until he came back so they could do all the things that being a personal lover entails…  
Well, how would that make him feel?  
"Stop thinking about this stuff," he advises himself as he departs from the elevator, feeling the beginnings of a headache pulse harshly at his temples.  
The suite is easy enough to find, a large, ornate door at the end of the hallway marking it's entrance better than any sign could. Morty isn't even thinking to be cautious when he steps inside, too wrapped up in his own emotions to notice the figure looming in the corner of the entryway, sneaking up behind him to press the butt of an alien gun to the back of his head.  
"Jesus Christ, _of course_ ," he grumbles.  
"You are not Rick Sanchez."  
"Well no shit," he says, clearly exasperated. He doesn't even have a weapon on him.  
"Who are you?" The figure demands, pressing the gun harder in warning.  
"I'm--" Think, Morty, think. "His lover." Fucking great.  
"Where is he?"  
"Clearly not here. It's just me," Morty fibs. He hopes he sounds blasé enough to be convincing.  
"Take a seat over there," the assailant orders, gesturing at one of the love seats dominating the center of the room. The hand in front of him isn't human, but it's not completely unrecognizable, either.  
He walks slow, hands held in front of him displaying some semblance of compliance. Once seated, he's finally able to get a good look at the alien, a female Hakari with purplish blue skin that contrasts the startling orange of her eyes. She's dressed in all black, her laser gun aimed carefully at his heart. Unfortunately for him, the Hakari aren't exactly known for their gentle nature.  
"What is your name?"  
"M--" He pauses, wonders how much she really knows about Rick himself. They're not exactly an inconspicuous pair in the multiverse. "Marc...o. It's Marco."  
"Marco. What a strange name. You are Rick's mate?" She asks.  
"Um…yes?"  
"You do not sound so sure." Christ, maybe he really _is_ going to need an acting class.  
"I-I am, it's just, uh, i-it's kind of a secret, I guess." Not a complete lie, really. Hasn't it been said that the best lies hold some hint of the truth to them?  
"I do not understand you humans. The secrets, the cheating. What is the purpose?"  
"Hey, not everyone can be born with a-a soulmate, y'know. Some of us actually have to worry about who we're going to spend the rest of our lives with." Oh god, he doesn't think that's Rick, does he?  
"No matter. When will Rick Sanchez be returning?"  
"I don't know. I jus-just came here to pick up a few things."  
"Things? What things?"  
"You have a habit of asking a lot of questions. Poor form, really," he bites, imitating Rick in a way that he knows he would probably appreciate. Self-centered bastard.  
"And you have a bad habit of talking back to someone who is pointing a gun at you."  
"Fair enough. I came to get some clothing."  
The Hakari takes a seat on the adjacent couch, her posture rigid, her grip on the gun never wavering. "You are sure that you are Rick Sanchez's mate? You do not seem like a person that would interest a powerful man such as himself."  
"Wow, just what every girl wants to hear," he sighs.  
"You are a girl? I was under the impression that men and women looked different on your planet."  
"First of all, that's a very narrow mindset. This is 2017. Secondly, I'm not a girl. It was a-an expression," he explains, sinking further into his seat. If he knows Rick--and he does, overwhelmingly so--he's going to be here for awhile before any sort of intervention arrives.  
"So cryptic; this is why I did not want to deal with humans. I do not understand your language or customs. You are a very strange people."  
"The Hakari sacrifice their first born to a moon goddess to prove their devotion to her as warriors," Morty fires back dryly. Suffice to say, none of his interactions with the species have been what he would consider pleasant affairs.  
"Humans wear an entirely different outfit for sleeping. You are unconscious. Why does it matter what you wear?"  
"Look, we could go back and forth about the weird things that each of our races do all day. The question is: how long are you going to keep me here?"  
"We will wait until Sanchez arrives."  
"He's not _going_  to," he stresses. "I told you, I came here to pick up a few things. We're not meeting."  
"That is fine. We can wait, no?" She smiles, rolling her shoulders comfortably.  
"It could be days, weeks, even. I don't know about you, but I-I have other things I could be doing besides waiting around for Rick."  
"It does not sound like you are very fond of him."  
"Look, Dr. Phil, if I wanted someone to pick apart my relationship with Rick piece by piece a-a-and point out all the flaws to me, I would go to therapy. Are you going to let me go or not?"  
"I do not know who this 'Dr. Phil' you speak of is, but I am not them, and I cannot let you go. How do I know you will not tell Rick Sanchez of my presence? It is too dangerous."  
"So what, you're going to babysit me? Point a gun at me while I shower and sleep and take a piss?" Morty dares.  
The Hakari seems to hesitate, her lips pursed in deliberation. This is when the door opens.  
"Oh-Oh for fuck's sake, who's this?" Rick asks, drunkenly gesturing at the Hakari with an open bottle in his hand.  
"Oh hey, you lying son of a bitch, I found one your lovers!" Morty exclaims jokingly from the couch.  
"Rick Sanchez! Your crimes against the Hakari people are unforgivable!" She thunders, whirling around from her seat to point the gun at him.  
"Is this about that time that we killed their princess and then cut her open for that egg sac?" Morty asks sarcastically. "Jeez, how could I have forgotten about that? Silly me."  
"You will be quiet!"  
"Is that a prediction or a command? See, I-I'm not so good at the-the English language myself--notice the stutter--so I can't really--"  
"I don't ha-have--I'm not f-fucking--I'm _too goddamn drunk_  to deal w-with this shit," Rick slurs, pulling the portal gun from his pocket and shooting it below the Hakari, his expression grim when he takes the seat directly beside Morty and slings his arm over the back of the couch. "Didn't I tell-tell you not to-to-to get into any trouble?"  
"That was pretty anticlimactic," Morty says, his tone disappointed. "No final showdown or long, drawn out speeches? Seriously, if this was a movie, it'd get a twenty percent on Rotten Tomatoes. The twenty is for my witty and insightful sarcasm, of course."  
"Answer the-the question, M-Morty."  
"Is this the part where I say, 'Yes Daddy, I'm sooo sorry that your poor choices put me in danger; please forgive me' and then I flutter my eyelashes and you spank me as punishment or something?"  
"Careful, kid, you just mi-might give me an-an idea," Rick mumbles, taking another sip from the bottle.  
"Seriously, Rick, you know I'm pissed off, right?"  
"If th-the biting c-commentary is-is any indication, then yes. Speaking of biting…" He murmurs, leaning down to press his lips to Morty's neck.  
"Oooh no, you _do not_  get to jump me after I was just _held hostage_  because of _you_ ," Morty chides, shoving Rick to the other side of the loveseat.  
"Hey, y-you were there too. If I-I-I recall correctly--a-and _I do_ \--you were the one who-who-who was digging around all up in her-her insides for the sac."  
"Funny, you think if I stick my hand down your throat and dig around _your_  insides that I could pull out yours?"  
"Am I supposed to be turned on right now?"  
"Ugh, you're so gross. Go be drunk and horny somewhere else."  
"Mortyyy," Rick whines, his expression pouty. "I wanna be drunk and-and horny with youuu."  
"Oh my god…someone take a picture…is Rick fucking Sanchez actually being…pathetic? I think I'm dreaming; someone pinch me."  
Rick reaches across the cushions, pinching Morty's bicep with an unsteady hand. "Dreaming?"  
"I don't think so," he says, and then, sighing as he opens one arm, "Come here, you drunk idiot."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, maybe this is gonna sound self-centered, but I think this is by far the funniest chapter. Morty is d-o-n-e.  
> I had so much fun writing this, it was an absolute breeze. R.I.P. nameless Hakari woman. Also the Hakari princess. Also her egg sac.  
> I hoped you guys liked this chapter as much as I did! Sarcastic Morty is my all time favorite. Thanks for reading and leaving feedback. I'll see you in Chapter Sixteen! ☆


	16. Coward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty grapples with a dangerous realization.

"Hey, Rick?"  
"Yeah, Morty?"  
"Why the _fuck_  is there a mirror above the bed in your suite?"  
They're standing in the middle of the doorway, Morty wrapped precariously in Rick's long arms, his face red with what Rick sincerely hopes is embarrassment and not the start of a lecture about his obvious perversions.  
Rick chuckles kind of nervously, staring up at the mirror that makes up a large part of the master bedroom's ceiling. "That's uh, heh, that's kind of-of-of obvious, isn't it?"  
"We are not fucking in here," Morty tells him sternly, the serious set of his brow ruining the breathless expression that had been on his face just moments earlier.  
"Come on, what's wrong with it?"  
"I do not need the image of my-myself being fuck-fucking _banged out_ by my grandfather permanently _etched_  into my brain," Morty stresses.  
"Morty, you've seen like, nine different v-versions of yourself have their-their-their fucking heads blown off. It's--at some point, y-y-you just gotta stop giving a-a fuck."  
"This is different. It's--I-I-I, ugh, can't we just--"  
"Look, M-Morty, ju-just relax for a-a second, okay? We-We don't gotta--I'm not gonna force you to-to do anything you don't wanna, but just hear me out." Rick presses his lips firmly to Morty's jugular, feels the thrumming pulse beneath his skin beat rapidly, the breath in his chest coming in too fast, like Morty is a frightened rabbit and Rick is the big, bad wolf. "The way y-y-you _look_ , Morty, when you let go of all that shit th-that you carry around inside of you a-and just let yourself feel good…"  
"Yeah?" Morty murmurs, still sounding a little anxious, like he's afraid that he's seconds away from caving, and fuck, he probably is.  
"Jesus, kid, it's so-so fucking pretty I could frame it," he whispers low, his voice so seductive that Morty feels the shock of it settle hot in his stomach.  
"Rick?"  
"Yeah, baby?"  
Morty blushes at the pet name. "A-Are you saying that be-because y-you mean it, or-or 'cause you just wanna…wanna fuck me in front of a mirror?"  
Rick grabs Morty's chin between his thumb and forefinger, his expression amused as he tilts Morty's head back so that they're staring face to face. "Trust me, Morty. I mean it."  
And Morty kisses him, kisses him because he's stupid, kisses him because he's easily persuaded, kisses him because he's a little curious about what he looks like when he's drowning in that powerful euphoria that Rick seems to instill in his bones.  
Rick slides his hands down to Morty's waist, possessive, guiding, until Morty's knees hit the back of the bed and he's forced to lay back to avoid being toppled by Rick. His tongue glides clumsily along his grandfather's, too eager, or maybe too nervous, and even though he's kissed more people than he can count on both hands, Rick always makes him feel like he's kissing for the very first time, makes him go stupid with want until he can't control himself. It's embarrassing. It's spellbinding. It's completely and utterly disastrous.  
Rick slips Morty's shirt over his head, wastes no time running his fingers over the smooth, pale skin on his chest and stomach, and Morty squirms with anticipation, has to close his eyes to keep himself from blushing. "Rick," he murmurs unconsciously, his fingers locking tight into the old man's hair.  
Rick laughs, squeezes Morty's cheeks with one hand. "You look so god damn cute right now," he says, but Morty won't look; he can't.  
"Thi-This is a-a bad idea," Morty whispers, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow.  
"The sex or the mirror?"  
"Probably both."  
"That's okay," Rick grins, his voice teasing. "You can keep your eyes covered; i-it'll be more fun that way."  
"Wha--"  
But then in that darkness behind his eyelids Morty feels something jolt like electricity through his body. Rick's fingers trail the sides of his waist and tread carefully around the top of his pants, and not being able to see what he's going to do next is an overwhelming mixture of exciting and terrifying that makes his body feel lit up with more sparks than the fourth of July.  
"Should I touch you, Morty?" He asks, but something in his voice has his grandson determined to hold out, to savor the red hot anticipation of hands that travel where they may.  
"So soon?" He challenges, his smirk the only thing visible below his arm.  
"Didn't you learn your lesson a-about not being able to-to-to hold out last time?" Rick chides, tracing the outline of Morty's pronounced hip bones.  
"Maybe I've been practicing?"  
"'It's not the same'," Rick mocks, and the fact that he remembers Morty's sentences precisely from the last time they had sex is inexplicably attractive.  
"Who says I was doing it by-by myself?"  
"Baby, I don't care a-about any of-of-of the inexperienced little gutter sluts y-you fuck around with. Just as long as you know that no one makes you feel l-like I do," Rick whispers hot into his ear, and Morty's erection swells quite obviously in his pants.  
It doesn't take long for Rick to notice, his fingers working fast on the fly of Morty's jeans to dive quickly beneath them, petting lightly over the tight outline of his cock until Morty feels painfully trapped in the confines of his own underwear.  
These instances of touching each other are beginning to feel like proclivities to Morty, he realizes, and the thought of that is almost enough to pull him out of the moment. Messing around with Rick feels exactly like using, except the consequences more dire, the feeling less mind numbing. The drugs, at first, had made him feel that inexplicable guilt that came with years of lectures from adults, the shrill and often stern warning that addiction could ruin lives. That guilt had faded with time, replaced by a need to take more, to chase the epic and rumored high that roped many people into a deadly and lifelong relationship. There had been no childhood rebuke on sleeping with a family member, however, and that means that all of the guilt Morty is feeling inside isn't necessarily from societal expectations alone. Perhaps incest was such a taboo, such an unthinkable and often unheard of act that the idea of abstaining from it was one that didn't need to be hammered into the skulls of children. But now, trapped underneath his grandfather, his heart racing in his chest as Rick leaves bite marks all over his recently healed skin, Morty knows it's just as addicting. And really, that's where the guilt comes from. He could sit around for days and find excuses for all of it: the lust, the euphoria, the inane and often irritating way in which he can't seem to keep himself away from Rick. But the truth is so obvious that it's harder to ignore than accept.  
This is his fault, and he hates himself for it.  
And yet, as usual, it's not enough to stop him. He lets Rick keep touching him, rocks into his calloused and gentle hand with an increasingly feverish pace, uncovers his eyes from the safety of his arm to kiss Rick until he can't think about anything else. In moments like these, he needs Rick more than he detests him, doesn't even think about the irony in using him to ward away the guilt he feels for sleeping with him. It doesn't matter...even when he realizes that he needs more.  
He removes Rick's sweater with determined hands, notes with a mild distaste that it's stained with booze, realizes that the old man is probably more drunk than he initially thought. He always is when they're touching each other. Perhaps it would bother someone else, but this is Morty. He's long since passed the disappointment stage of Rick's long career of drinking.  
Rick doesn't ask to take off Morty's pants just like Morty doesn't ask to take off his. So starved for the feeling of skin against skin, for the friction of their bodies to turn into something inexplicably spellbinding, they create a silent agreement, an unspoken need that negates all forms of permission. If they didn't want each other, didn't want this to be happening, they wouldn't be here, on a king size bed in an unnecessarily large suite, faced by a mirror to reflect back to them their most painful and yet most pleasurable sin.  
Rick kisses down Morty's sides, his lips trailing to touch each outline of ribcage, his hand still teasing through the thin cotton of Morty's underwear until Morty is pushing his hips desperately into his palm for some sort of relief.  
"How bad do you want it?" Rick asks, his grin devilish.  
Morty looks like he's practically on the verge of tears. "Please, Rick," he begs, chest flushing red with nerves and frustration and the worst kind of need. "I-I want it, please, please."  
"So easy," Rick snickers, fingers dipping below the waistband of Morty's boxer briefs to drag them agonizingly slow down his slim legs.  
"God, I-I fucking hate you, just--"  
"Oh, you wanna go-go fast, huh?" Rick demands, shoving Morty's legs up so that his knees are hugging his chest. "Wanna be a quick little-little fuck, i-is that it?"  
"Ah, no, I--"  
"Grab the lube from the nightstand," Rick growls. "Top drawer."  
Morty twists as far as he can, practically stretches out his lungs trying to reach out so broadly with clumsy hands.  
That's when Rick assaults him with his mouth, licks leisurely up Morty's shaft like he's testing the waters.  
Morty gasps, hands falling back to the bed to grip at the sheets for some sort of purchase.  
"W-What are you doing?" Rick challenges threateningly, reprimanding Morty with a slap to the back of his thigh. "I told y-you to get the lube."  
"Sorry," Morty huffs, fingers just barely grazing the knob on the drawer to pull it toward him. Luckily the lube is in the front corner, a decent sized bottle that's easy to grab without scrambling too much.  
Rick takes it without saying much of anything, let's the head of Morty's cock slip thickly over his tongue to rest in the back of his mouth while he pops open the cap and pours a generous amount of lube into his hand.  
Morty moans, bucks forward like he can't help it, his hands tangling into Rick's hair in a desperate attempt to sink further into the warmth of his open mouth, but Rick seems determined to make him hold out, to punish him for his youthful eagerness like he has a personal plight against it.  
"Rick, _please_ , I-I need it--"  
"You beg sort--kind of easy, don't you?" Rick asks, hand taking over where his mouth has ceased. Morty wants to cry. "I-I gotta say, Morty, i-it's a good look on you. Shameless."  
"Ugh, f-fuck you, y-y-you asshole, I'll just--" Morty tries to shove away, feels so helplessly hot and embarrassed and irked, but Rick holds him down, kisses him like he's sorry.  
"I forget how-how needy you are," he tuts into his ear, dragging a cold finger down his thigh to sit tellingly at his entrance. "I won't tease you anymore."  
"Oh, you can tease me," Morty bites. "But it-it'll cost you."  
"That so?" Rick chuckles, edging the tip of his finger carefully inside. Morty has to remind himself to breathe. "Wha-What's your price?"  
"I-I get to--nn--tease you next time," Morty threatens.  
"Oh? A-And just how are y-you gonna do that?"  
"Haah, I'll-I'll suck you off a-and then I won't let you cum."  
Rick trails a finger up to Morty's lips, skims his earlobe with the edge of his teeth while his finger sinks further inside his grandson's ass, teasing Morty's prostate with a precision that has Morty arching his back painfully into the safety of the bed. "I bet you've never had a dick past these lips in-in your life," he whispers.  
"Why do you care?" Morty scoffs. "Y-You wanna take another first?"  
"Maybe I do," Rick murmurs, and the sincerity of it makes Morty ache in the most heavenly sort of way.  
"I-I'll do it now," he says all rushed, too eager, too stupidly turned on to think it through. He wants to do it, wants the power of it to course through his veins. He wants Rick at his mercy. "I-If you want," he adds quietly, feeling a slight twinge of self consciousness when he doesn't receive a response as immediate as the offer.  
"You wanna?" Rick asks skeptically, kissing the sweet spot underneath his jawline.  
"Yeah," he agrees innocently, intentions hidden under a sultry stare. "I wanna."  
Rick releases Morty from his grasp, a little smirk playing at his lips when Morty shudders from the loss of his fingers, eyes looking a little depraved when he shoves Rick backward to rest against the mountain of pillows littering the bed.  
"You don't waste any time."  
"I'll waste time when I'm dead."  
Morty's hurried kisses feel like the breaths of a current, the soft rush of his mouth at Rick's stomach sinking into the skin to sit heavily in his groin. So much for subtlety.  
"You're f-fucking sick, aren't you?" Morty muses confidently, fingers dipping just below the band of Rick's underwear.  
"I'm--hah--no sicker than you are," Rick argues, trying fruitlessly to control his own breathing when Morty starts to carefully inch his boxers down his hips.  
"Maybe that's true," Morty allows. "But you're the-the _adult_ , Rick. You're supposed to be _responsible_."  
"I'm the la-last person anyone sh-should e-e-expect to be responsible," Rick huffs. Morty has him completely exposed now, underwear pooling at his thighs as he licks a steady trail that ends just above the base of his cock.  
"Exactly. So that be-being said, c-can I suck your dick, Grandpa?"  
If spontaneous nosebleeds were a thing, Rick is definitely sure he would have one by now.  
"F-Fuck, Morty, y-y-you don't have to _ask_."  
"Oh, I know," Morty grins cheekily. "I just like to-to see the look on your face."  
"Little shi--hoooh f-fuck," Rick gasps, hips stuttering forward as Morty lavishes his head with slow licks. His small fingers grip hungrily into Rick's skin, leave their marks on him the way the two of them have left their marks on the multiverse. In this moment, Rick is his to destroy, to build up and break down and bend in whatever direction he so chooses. Between these sheets and outside of them, Rick is his. He always has been.  
Morty takes as much of Rick as he can in his mouth by sheer accident, really, a little miscalculation in angle that has Rick groaning in a way so sublime that Morty is having a hard time suppressing a moan of his own.  
He had imagined his first time doing this to be a little more awkward, a desperate attempt at some shred of the attention that he starved for on a regular basis. He had imagined doing this with someone who didn't love him, strung out on a dangerous amount of drugs and alone and scared and needing to feel something other than empty.  
'How is this any different?' the logical side of him asks, dying down when Morty lets an especially slutty noise escape his lips. Rick's head presses dangerously close to the back of his throat, and it's almost too much, really, between Rick's dick in his mouth and his fingers pressing tightly inside of his ass, he feels full of him, of his dirty, encouraging words and broken promises. He wants more. He wants all of it.  
His scrawny legs sidle up to Rick's hips, his eyes dark and lusty when he leans forward to press his mouth to the delicate skin of his throat.  
"Fuck me," he demands breathlessly, squeezing himself firmly against Rick's length.  
"You want it, Morty?" Rick asks huskily, free hand grabbing a little to hard at his ass cheek.  
"I want it," Morty says.  
It doesn't take much more than that. Rick presses inside little by little, and Morty can't stop thinking about how much he needs him and how maybe they should have used a little more lube and how it hurts so good that he could weep from the sheer beauty of it alone. The world slips away little by little, a foggy little nothingness save for the distinct outline of Rick's eyes, staring into him like they're viewing his very soul. There is nothing outside of this and that's exactly the way Morty likes it.  
"Fuck, you're so tight," Rick gasps, fingers pressing just right on the insides of Morty's thighs.  
Morty thrusts his hips down to a near painful degree, let's himself feel the ache of it in his bones, the way Rick feels inside of him, too big and too rough and too perfect, too mind numbingly perfect for Morty to completely wrap his head around.  
And before he knows it, he's running his mouth all stupid, smug little words dripping from his lips before he can think them through.  
"You're weak," he murmurs, tiny fingers gripping Rick's hair as he licks the space between Morty's ribcage. "I'm going to--aaah-- take everything from you. Don't you care, Rick?" He muses, pressing his lips to his temple. "Don't y-you want to run away?"  
"I--ugh--I told you I wouldn't," Rick grunts, his pace near erratic. Morty feels like he's seeing stars.  
"That doesn't mean you don't-don't want to," he points out.  
"Morty--"  
"I-I'm gonna tell-tell you a secret, Rick," Morty whispers, his breath hot on the shell of his grandfather's ear. "You could leave me a-a-a hundred times and I still wouldn't worry about whether or not you were coming back. Because you can't quit me like I can't quit you."  
"That-That's not true," Rick insists, his voice frantic and desperate and filled with realization.  
"No? Then prove me wrong."  
"Morty, y-you know I can't--"  
"Yeah, Rick, I do," Morty interrupts, sweat rolling idly down his temple. "'Cause deep down, you're-- _fuck_ \--you're a coward and you know it. Taking from me over and over and over; my hope, my innocence, my happiness. And now you're going to let me take everything from you until we're--haah--nothing."  
"Baby, look at me," Rick pleads, gentle fingers guiding, coaxing. "I never meant to hurt you."  
"I know you didn't," Morty exhales, hands tangling with Rick's between their chests. His thighs are killing him, his lungs are burning, and yet he's still here, still on top of Rick and suddenly he has to see, has to know how serious the damage is once and for all.  
He pulls at Rick's side, leans toward the mattress so he gets the idea, and finally, finally, Rick is on top of him, fucking into him sweet and dirty, and Morty dares to take a glance, just a little peek into the mirror, and what he sees there makes his stomach feel like hot lead.  
He looks dazed. Mesmerized. Starstruck. He looks like he's enjoying his first breath after surfacing water, like all those nagging and dangerous parts inside of his mind have been put to rest, like he's absolutely and completely fucked for the rest of his natural born life.  
And for some reason, this dread, this absolute fear that's now consuming every inch of him, is what pushes him over the edge, is what makes him come, clenching tight around Rick, untouched cock making a mess of their chests and nails leaving crescent moon cuts along the expanse of one of Rick's biceps. He feels heaven. He feels ruined.  
"You're so perfect," Rick huffs, paying Morty's frail body no mind in his relentless speed. "You're so good. I-I never want to-to-to hurt you, Morty." Rick's mouth is on his again, fervent and warm and apparently just what Rick needs to absolutely come apart, hands shaking around Morty's shoulders and lips groaning his name over and over and over until Morty can feel another piece of himself come loose, worm it's way through the layers of muscle and skin in his chest and become a part of the black hole inside of his grandfather.  
"I know you don't," Morty mumbles, body relaxing against the sheets. "Because you use me to hurt yourself."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soooo sorry that this chapter took so long, but smut is not yet my strong suit. I hope this was worth the wait.  
> Anyways, happy new year! I finished this while buzzing after a new year's eve celebration so I hope it all makes sense.  
> As always, thanks for reading! Feedback is always appreciated. ♡


	17. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty is forced to make a decision. Rick opts to make it for him.

He is somewhere both hot and cold. A dim light burns in the distance, it's gentle glow a beacon in an otherwise dark room. His hands reach out, his legs begin to move one foot in front of the other. The light comes closer, wraps him in a glorifying warmth like a blanket made from a thousand hugs, each arm another layer of all of the validation and affection he has so often lacked. Music begins to play in the distance, at first a low hum, but then a crescendo of distinct melody, the metaphoric lyrics locking a comforting vice on his heart. This song reminds him of Rick. This song reminds him of a time before everything became so messy, before life became a question of do or don't and all the gray areas in between. This place is the home that Morty has searched his entire life for.  
He takes a breath that doesn't quite feel like a breath at all, the empty chasm of what a creature without lungs might recreate after having breathing described to them. A barely noticeable pain emanates from his chest, a sharp prick into what is the reality that Morty is so desperately escaping from. It's not an overwhelming discomfort, really, bearable compared to everything he's endured both physically and mentally in his short life. All of it can be easily ignored in favor of this feeling, in favor of this righteous state of mind that has drowned all of his demons.  
Each step closer to the light becomes a step in the series of an intricate dance, makes Morty feel weightless with feeling, or perhaps the lack thereof. He is perfect, empty, holy. He is indestructible.  
Somewhere in the distance, a voice calls. He is too far gone to hear it.  
☆  
Rick is startled from another troubled sleep by a frantic din, a persistent beeping that has him scrambling from his cot to hunt down the source of the noise and put it to rest. The sound brings him back to a cold and unfriendly hospital room, to holding his mother's hand alone at the young age of sixteen, trying to ignore the commotion of a heart monitor that told him that she was dying better than any doctor ever could.  
It's easy to not process things so early in the morning, easy to address things with less urgency than one would while completely awake. This is not the first time that Rick has awoken in the night to a mysterious racket. It surely won't be the last.  
So when he discovers the source of the noise, he, at first, addresses the device with mild annoyance, with a few petulant remarks and a desire to find the off button as quickly as possible.  
Much like his grandson in this moment, he is oblivious, coasting on his own personal autopilot as he typically does when he's not prepared to feel much of anything. He might as well be the only man alive in the multiverse at this very second, running on oxygen and a very specific need to crawl back into his cot and let his brain rest for a few more hours.  
It's only when he realizes there's no easily accessible off switch that he feels something might actually be wrong. The device continues to beep angrily in his hand, it's screen lit up with a spiking line that looks strikingly similar to that of, of course, a heart monitor. He gets that sinking feeling in his gut again, the feeling that he might be about to lose something he won't be able to get back. He turns the light on.  
He thinks he should probably be more surprised that it's the receiver for Morty's tracker, but the truth is that he's been more prepared for this scenario than he would care to admit. Since he returned this had always been in the back of his mind, this thought of Morty taking it a step too far, of hurting himself in one of the deadliest ways possible.  
Rick is rushing before he really even knows what he's doing, his body moving ahead of his conscious mind like only it knows how. Everything is going too slow, like time has almost stopped completely, like each untimely beat of his heart is another beat less for his grandson.  
Being mentally prepared for this situation is doing little to help him brace against the impact of what it all means. Morty is somewhere, probably hurting. Morty is in danger of losing his life. And even though the chances are that, if he hurries, the kid will probably be okay, he doesn't know what they're both about to go through before then.  
And what if he does lose Morty? What is there after that? Where does he go from that point on?  
He has no time to think about it. Half asleep and frantic for all of this to be over, he opens a portal, quietly hopes that all of this is some sort of bizarre dream, and steps into the unknown.  
☆  
The girl is small, an emaciated little creature with wide eyes and freckles that cover her sallow cheeks.  
It's been a long time since she's been this afraid, since she's felt an absolute fear for the next five minutes of her life. It's with great deliberation that she's decided to stay at all. If someone shows up she could be in a serious amount of trouble. If someone doesn't show up this kid is going to die.  
She holds the stranger as carefully as a china doll, fingers shaking hard underneath his matted curls. His lips are starting to turn that sickly pale blue that she remembers so familiarly from the years of her childhood. It makes her stomach turn, makes her heart ache with memories that she's buried under years of drugs. She knows she should call. After all, it's a call she's made before.  
But something is stopping her. Some inane and irrational part of her mind, illogical as it seems, is telling her that if she picks up the phone, it will be her final undoing. And she doesn't want to go back. She can't.  
"Come on, wake up," she pleads desperately, hand gripping a little too hard at his shoulder. Her words are useless, of course...just as much as they've ever been. Her grandmother used to tell her that the world could not be transformed with words. She's starting to think that the old shrew was right.  
She glances at the clock, but it seems warped somehow, like the hands are curved in ten different directions. Her head feels like it's filled with cotton.  
She's about to watch someone else die. Why can it never be her for once?  
"For fuck's sake," a voice sighs woefully from behind her, it's rough baritone sounding achingly familiar to that of her father's. "Why can I never be wrong for once?"  
The man appears to have materialized out of thin air, an intimidating and unannounced presence that has the girl questioning the very stability of her sanity. She stares at him for a moment, pupils blown wide, and then looks back down to her hands, gazing at them as if they've somehow created this exhausted looking stranger.  
"How high am I?" She chokes out, chest welling up with so many emotions that she's amazed to find how much pressure her ribs can take before cracking.  
"I'd be willing to bet you're nowhere near as high as he is," the old man responds with a grim stare, long fingers gesturing pointedly at the paling boy in her grasp. He's shoving her aside before she can register the loss of weight in her arms. "How long has he been out like this?"  
"A little less than ten minutes?" She guesses. She notices how tenderly the stranger seems to hold the kid, like he's familiar enough to own him. Something possessive and soul shattering sits heavy in his eyes.  
"That's what I was afraid of."  
"He won't die, right?" She asks desperately, watching frantically as the man withdraws a syringe filled with something that is decidedly not any drug that she's ever dabbled in.  
"Don't you know?" He murmurs absently, feeling up the boy's arm for a vein that hasn't collapsed from abuse. "God rewards the faithful."  
"There is no god," she responds reflexively, like she has something to prove by believing in nothing at all.  
The stranger looks to her for a moment of utter waste, face polished and empty. He reminds her of a painting, lips set in a straight line, skin white and garish. Something about him makes her an unlikely mixture of incredibly relaxed and dangerously on edge. For a split second she thinks this is what it must have been like to meet the serpent in the Garden of Eden.  
"You're looking at him," he announces grimly.  
☆  
Morty decides that there is nothing better in this earthly realm than the feeling of exhaling smoke from his ruined lungs with his eyes closed, chemical poison coating his veins in absolute heaven. Better than happiness, better than dreams, better than sex. Nothing will ever make him feel more exquisitely alive than these things that his body can no longer live without. Or rather, he thinks, the things that cannot live without his body. Between he and the drugs, he's not sure who's more addicted to who.  
He's sitting at the head of an unending table, cigarette shaking between two bony fingers poised neatly on the marble surface.  
In front of him sits an ornate little box, covered in carvings the likes of which his hazy vision cannot comprehend. At any given moment it is his choice to open it. He lets the option hang in the smoke thick air like a suggestion.  
He recalls sitting in Dylan's piece of shit car, head nodding along to a song he can no longer remember. They were idling in the empty parking lot of an abandoned 7-11, the shadows of their features sharp and angular under the only light in the car that worked. D was singing along like he knew the words, stopping every couple of verses to coax the so-easily-swayed Morty with honey words and fire eyes.  
"What do you want, Morty? Do you want to walk through the rest of your life at a snail's pace? Get married, have kids, work an office job, and die incomplete? Or do you really want to live? Don't you want to know what life is really all about?"  
It was a stupid question. Morty already knew what life was really all about. It was that adrenaline rush you got when a bullet missed your head by an inch. It was that pure joy you got when you knew that you had power over someone else, when you knew you could swindle and cheat and fight your way out of anything that the multiverse threw at you. It was being the only sidekick to the world's smartest man, that bone rush feeling you got knowing that you were special and that, with him by your side, you were indomitable. And between all of that was soul crushing depression. It was nights spent sobbing into your pillows, trying to muffle the noises so that no one could hear. It was that fiery anxiety that sat constantly at the base of your spine, eating away at your very core with all of the worries your godlike grandfather viewed as weaknesses. It was reality, every inch of it. It was the truths of the world.  
Heroin wasn't what life was really all about. Heroin was everything that people wished life was about.  
It was a lie that Morty was willing to live. It was a lie he was willing to die for.  
He takes another long drag from the cigarette, runs his palm over the divots in the wood carefully, like a single touch could cause the whole thing to crumble. It's no longer a question of if he wants to know what life is all about. It's about whether or not, now that he's seen the realities of that truth, he wants to keep living it.  
Fifteen feels too young to know that answer. Because the truth is, Morty _doesn't_  want to keep living. He's tired of the day in, day out routine that he forces himself to endure. He's tired of knowing the horrors of the world he lives in. He's tired of knowing nothing at all.  
Morty doesn't open the box. He doesn't have to. Because the box opens by itself. It always does.  
☆  
IV. Anesthesia. Scalpel. Saw. More anesthesia. Tweezers. Cauterize. Fuse the tissue. Cauterize again. Stitches. Salve. Needles. Needles. Needles. Needles.  
This has been Rick's life for the past fifteen hours, a robotic, calculated form of autopilot that keeps at bay all those feelings that he would normally drown with alcohol.  
Morty, for the most part, has remained unconscious. There are a few seconds every so often where he'll flutter his eyelids, or twitch his hands. These are the moments that Rick fears the most. This dreadful, awful worry that nags at the back of his skull, this anger and heartache and worry, it's all easy to ignore when his attention is forced elsewhere, when it's not focused on Morty as a person but Morty as a subject, as a patient to the cold, isolated depths of the lair beneath the garage. But time marches on steadily, a determined and vicious soldier who's sole purpose is to count down the minutes until Rick has nothing left to do but wait. That's when he'll finally lose it.  
Of course, being confined to one area of the house makes the tasks more tedious, a scramble from one minute objective to the other. By the time he realizes he's been rearranging the same bookshelf for the past fifteen minutes, he's already half a bottle deep, no longer able to stave off the unease that suggests that drinking will only make all of it worse.  
And what does it really matter, anyways? Rick doesn't owe him anything. Morty had broken their promise, after all, went and threw away those two agonizing weeks they had spent together for a moment's worth of bliss that ended up almost killing him. Morty tricked him and, in the end, took what he wanted anyways...his heart, his body, his sanity. Morty had become a better Rick than he himself had ever been. And that was very, very dangerous.  
But that's not even the hardest part. The hardest part is knowing that all of this was inevitable, that even if he hadn't left when he did, he would have left eventually, would have abandoned his grandson under the guise of the greater good. Maybe Morty was always destined to be a broken, manipulative man trapped in the body of a fifteen year old boy, too wise for the world and all of it's devastating realities. Maybe it was always meant to be Rick's fault. Maybe this was the universe's way of making him atone for his sins.  
The universe answers back to those musings with a cold, resounding yes. Not in the form of a revelation, of course, or some nonsense spiritual vision that will make Rick feel as though the world is being balanced vicariously on his shoulders.  
The universe answers back in the sound of Morty's voice.  
And for some reason, that feels much, much heavier.  
☆  
"Rick?" Everything is spinning, fast and confusing like a carousel at top speed, round and round and round with colors so bright that they hurt Morty's eyes. The feeling might fill him with some form of childhood nostalgia if he didn't think that he was going to barf his entire stomach out.  
"Yeah, Morty," Rick says from somewhere that sounds farther away than it probably is.  
"What happened?"  
"De--That depends on-on how much you remember."  
Morty remembers enough to be ashamed, enough to be heart achingly afraid of what Rick is going to say next, going to do when Morty fully comes to.  
He decides it's better to skirt around the obvious. "I-I remember pass-passing out, I think," he admits.  
Rick stumbles over to the side of the bed, and Morty can't make out the expression on his face, whether he's frowning like he's just been duped by the world's dumbest person or smiling like he's about to sink his teeth into the world's most challenging prey.  
"Which part should I fill y-you in on, Morty? Should-Should I go chronologically, or by-by-by order of least fucked up to most?"  
It's probably a rhetorical question, but Morty and his stupid mouth can't help but say, "Chronological." Even through his limited vision, he doesn't miss the glare that that evokes.  
"Okay. We'll start from-from the moment I saw you passed out on some-some shitty motel floor. Actually, 'passed out' is taking it a-a-a little too lightly. Let's just cut the-the shit and say overdose. You were overdosing i-in the arms of some fucking crack whore who wasn't going to call for help." Rick is shaking. Rick never shakes. "Maybe next we-we'll talk about the part where it took-took me five minutes to actually resuscitate you because I could barely find a-a-a vein to administer the Narcan into. I had to put the needle into-into your fucking neck. Which is ac-actually a great segway into why I-I just spent the past fifteen hours repairing the damage to your fucking brain."  
"Rick, I--"  
"We had a deal, Morty."  
"I know, but--"  
"No. You don't. Y-Y-You don't have a fucking clue," he sighs. His voice sounds like it's on the edge of breaking. "What am I supposed to do, Morty? What do I do? Just-Just stay here, fuck around w-with you, listen to empty promises, pick you up off of the floor the next time that y-you decide that heroin is more important than-than everything else?"  
"You don't have to _do_  anything," Morty insists.  
Rick looks tired, too tired to even hold that calm and collected composure that he's spent years perfecting. It's one of the scariest things that Morty has ever seen, the openness in his expression, the way the hurt and confusion and anger sit there so obviously in his features. "I thought I could…I-I don't know. I thought I could make this better. But I'm not enough for you, Morty. I never can be."  
Morty stares blankly into the sheets, letting the reality of it all set in. Rick _isn't_ enough for him. No one will ever be enough to fill that place inside of him where an innocent boy once lived. It's not a total emptiness, not really. It's more like a loss, a piece of him that will negate him from feeling entirely whole ever again. Knowing now that he can't fill that spot with the resignation of others puts to rest an old demon that awakes an entirely new one. Where once he held hope that something would make him complete, he now lives with the lifelong sorrow of knowing that he never will be. Now it's just a matter of learning how to live with that.  
"I think..." He takes a deep breath, tries to resign himself to this idea that he's about to put out into the world, to this thing that demands more suffering and more truth and more realization. More than getting shot, more than loving Rick, more than overdosing, this is perhaps the most terrifying prospect of his young life, and what's more, _he's_  the one who's about to suggest it. "I think I need help," he says, and he means it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say that this is one of my absolute favorite chapters. Sorry I almost killed Morty. He's my precious cinnamon bun, but hey. Trials and tribulations, amirite?  
> It's so weird to think that this story is nearing it's end. I feel like I've been writing this all of my life.  
> Side note that it may take awhile for me to write the next chapter because I'm moving out of state next week and boy howdy is it a lot of work.  
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Feedback and comments are always appreciated. Thanks for reading and I'll see you in Chapter Eighteen! ♡


	18. Weak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morty checks into rehab. Rick comes up with a dangerous plan.

The attending nurse reminds him of Jessica, reminds him of a dream that had died alongside the boyish desires of his youth. She's beautiful and whimsical and her smile is like honey, but Morty knows that it's only a front, just the promising first act in the sequence of the painfully overdrawn Shakespearean tragedy that is his road to recovery.  
Rick did not come with him, and so it's simple to notice the other little tokens of his being as well, the way the lobby appears strikingly similar to the suite that they had shared only a few nights ago, how the sparkling fountain at it's center is the same piercing blue as his grandfather's eyes. Without Rick by his side, Morty realizes how easily he connects his very world right back to him, how nearly every thought is plagued with visions of Rick, who had torn down and become the very foundation of his life within the span of what felt like an eternity but was really only a short sliver in the unceasing timeline of his existence.  
Suffice to say, the actual layout of the building ceases to be as gaudy and reminiscent as the foyer, and after an awkwardly tearful goodbye with Beth and Summer, who had insisted on driving him to the facility, he settles into a passive state that knows little beyond following directions from the cheerful techs and doctors that assure him that he's in good hands.  
It's not until a few days later that someone actually says something worth paying attention to. He's coming out of a methadone haze, sitting quietly on the cool leather chaise in the psychologist's office while the doctor runs through a list of questions that she's probably memorized word for word from some old psychiatry textbook. They're all just gateways into something a little deeper, something a little more worth mentioning. 'So tell me about your parents' eventually turns into 'Let's discuss the lifelong emotional neglect from your mother'. 'Do you have any friends?' suddenly becomes 'Why do you think that you shut people out?'. The way it all works feels deceitful somehow, like cheerful conversation that's designed for the purpose of picking apart your flaws. The concept seems reasonably sinister to Morty, whose entire life has revolved around the rule that the fallacious parts of his mind are also his most valuable. Therapy is like having something stolen from him. It disallows him from being the only person aware of the weaknesses that those around him so willingly ignore.  
"I noticed that you haven't talked about your grandfather," Dr. Campbell notes, stare boring into Morty the way it does when she's really searching for information. It's the only thing that's perked his interest all day.  
"My grandfather?" He asks stupidly, hoping she doesn't know as much as she might be letting on.  
"Yes, your grandfather...Richard, is it?"  
"Rick," Morty corrects a second too quickly.  
"Rick, then," she smiles. "Why don't you tell me a little bit about your relationship with him?"  
The question makes Morty's palms feel sweaty. A little bit? The entirety of their relationship can't even be summed up in a book.  
"My grandpa Rick is uh…I don't know. I-I guess we're kind of close…or, we-we used to be." It's a wrong move and Morty knows it. The doctor immediately straightens up with excitement, her pen scribbling rapidly on the battered notebook in her lap.  
"Used to be? What happened?" She asks casually.  
Morty sighs.  
"He left, or-or, uh went to prison, I guess. Willingly," he, for some reason, clarifies.  
Luckily, the doctor doesn't immediately ask the question he expects.  
"How long was he gone?"  
"About three months," Morty shrugs, pulling his knees up to rest underneath his chin.  
"Is that when the drug use started?"  
"Not right away," Morty admits. "Maybe a month or so after that."  
"Why then?"  
"Why then?" Morty repeats. "I…I don't know. I guess…I guess I knew he wasn't coming back so I…I thought maybe it was, like…over...for me."  
"Could you elaborate?"  
Morty shakes his head. All these questions are starting to feel like an interrogation. "Rick isn't like a…normal grandfather. He does things that most people couldn't think of in the--in their wildest dreams."  
"So I've heard," the doctor smiles. "You two aren't exactly the most inconspicuous pair, you know."  
"Well what do you do after that?" Morty demands, shoulders slouched with defeat. "What do you do when you have more than you could-could ever hope for and it suddenly disappears?"  
"Well? What did _you_ do?"  
"I escaped," Morty chuckles dryly. "I escaped just like everyone else."  
"Can you really blame yourself, Morty?" The doctor asks. "From what I've been told, you've seen some very traumatic things in a very short period of time. Most people your age wouldn't be able to handle the kind of pressure and responsibility that you've had to deal with; forget about doing it on their own. The kind of perseverance you're showing tells me that you're an incredibly strong person. What you're doing right now is far from escaping."  
"That doesn't erase anything," he argues. "The people I've hurt, the things I've done to forget about those people I hurt…that doesn't go away just because I'm getting help."  
The doctor shifts uncomfortably in her chair, a defeated little smile plastered to her lips for just a second too long. "Of course not," she assures him. "Nothing can be erased completely..." Her chest rises and falls with a steep breath, her eyes passionate and more sincere than Morty could have anticipated. "…but recovery isn't about erasing the past. It's about learning how to deal with all of those bad things that we've done so we can strive to be better, more whole people."  
"I don't know if that's possible for me," Morty admits. "Everything that's happened, all the things I've seen…I-It's such a vast part of my life that it's sort of starting to feel like…"  
"Like it's a part of you?" Doctor Campbell guesses.  
"Yeah," Morty sighs. "A big part of me."  
"And it is," she agrees. "But you're the one who has to decide how you let it shape you as a person. I know that decision can be hard sometimes."  
"It's hard all the time," Morty frowns, eyes trained on the track marks in his arms. "Every time I wake up I just get this _urge_...to erase it all from my head, y'know? L-Like if I don't feel numb I'll just feel...everything." He pauses for a moment, fingers twitching longingly for that feeling of relief. "And that'll be it for me."  
"Morty, I'm going to be straightforward with you because I can sense that you're a person who values honesty. There is a way for you to cope with those emotions in a way that's both healthy and practical, but…your case is one of the most severe we've seen for someone in your age group. The process is going to require a lot of time and a lot of commitment. If you're serious about turning your life around…you have to want it more than anything else."  
"I don't know if I believe in that," he says.  
"Believe in what?"  
"Turning your life around. You know, I hear what you're saying and all I-I'm thinking is 'you're probably going to have deeply rooted issues for the rest of your life'."  
"What part of what I said suggests that?" The doctor asks.  
"The 'most severe case you've ever seen for my age group' part. To me tha-that says that you're not prepared to handle my situation. I-I mean what's the guarantee that I'll get better? What's the guarantee that I'll walk out of here and never touch heroin again?"  
"There are no guarantees in life, Morty. There are only people who work hard to get where they want, and people who don't. If you want a happy, healthy future, only _you_  can decide to do that. I can only give you the tools you need to get there."  
Morty takes a moment to think about it, to think about his mom and Summer and all the hell he's put them through, all the things he's done to keep them up late into the middle of the night worrying in the form of tears. He thinks about all of the things that they don't know still, about he and Rick and all the sick, terrible shit that they've done in secrecy, not knowing or maybe not caring enough about how much their selfishness could hurt the people they had already broken.  
And for once, it's enough.  
It has to be.  
☆  
Rick doesn't really do much of anything for that first week. No adventures, no bar hops, not even a hint of the mindless tinkering he tends to do when he's trying to keep his thoughts out of those too-difficult gray areas. It all seems like a chore compared to the alternative…if an alternative to coping can be considered getting drunk alone and sobbing into the pillow like a heartbroken teenager.  
Nothing feels right about these past few weeks, not the crying or the fucking or the hurting and hurting and hurting, like an endless cycle of knives to the heart that has him shaking to the core with the weight of the pain.  
All of the things that he and Morty have been through lately seem like something outside of the realm of their possibilities, like they're the same broken, angry people, but some grand puppeteer is using the potential of that agony to pull the strings in the strangest of ways.  
On the outside, the solution to their problems seems so simple. Any idiot on the street could tell you the same answer a hundred different times in a hundred different ways.  
But he and Morty know that things aren't always as they appear on the outside. Sure, they could live their lives by the morals they had each grown up on, that unspoken list of golden rules that commands the natural order of society. But they also both know that the universe is much bigger than those guidelines. So what then? What do two scarred people do when they task themselves with the responsibility of creating their own version of normal?  
Clearly, whatever answer they have to that question isn't working.  
So Rick sits, sits and waits for something miraculous to happen, sits and hopes that whatever Morty is trying to do is going to somehow help the both of them, sits and knows that his lack of strength compared to his grandson's has the potential to shatter any efforts that they might make to better their situation.  
Morty is young. He at least still possesses the ability to wire his brain a little differently, to kick poor habits before they become poor personality traits.  
But Rick? Rick is lifetimes ahead, hardened with years of self-neglect and trauma that have turned him into the selfish alcoholic that stole his grandson's chance at a normal life away. How can he teach himself otherwise at this stage in life, when all the horrible shit he's experienced has practically turned him into a living god among men? How can he force himself to crush that impenetrable wall inside of him for the sake of one stupid kid?  
These aren't questions he's had to ask himself lately, and the thought scares him.  
One way or another, Morty has found out how to crumble that wall all on his own. Now that he's gone, it's up to Rick to decide whether or not his pride will keep his grandson from taking anything else.  
And it's not as if Morty hasn't earned it. He's put more time and dedication into putting up with Rick's bullshit than those who had sworn fealty before him. Hell, even Rick's own wife had been determined to cut the cord on him the moment things looked too broken to fix.  
But not Morty. Through all of Rick's abuse, all of his blind anger and drunken stupidity, Morty has stuck by his side, encouraged him to do the right thing when the years of numbness made the lines between right and wrong too blurred to decipher. Morty has been his support system, his rock, his conscious where one was lacking. Morty has picked up all of the broken, jagged pieces of his grandfather and still found something worth keeping. Morty has given Rick so much. Rick has given him so little.  
It's a bridge that Rick is suddenly determined to gap...even if it means doing something unthinkable.  
☆  
There's a knock outside the door just five minutes after Morty's old school bus rumbles by the window, it's creaky old tires ceasing to make that deafening screech at the end of their driveway that always used to wake Rick from his drunken blackouts.  
Rick is home alone once again, sprawled haphazardly across the couch with half an empty bottle of whiskey in his right hand. Rick is home alone a lot these days.  
His first instinct, as always, is to ignore it. After all, this isn't really _his_ home, not a place where he would receive visitors or debt collectors or whoever else comes to a regular house in a regular town looking for some regular schmuck to bother. No, if anyone is coming here to see Rick, it's not someone who would be polite enough to knock on the front door. So, if he's being quite honest with himself, which, for the most part, he usually is, answering the door at three-twenty in the afternoon is neither interesting nor dire enough to be bothered with.  
Of course, he also convinces himself that his hesitance has nothing to do with the fact that he's too shit drunk to pretend that he isn't, or that he's been crying for the past hour, or that he's afraid that it might be Morty behind that door. Of course it's all just beneath him, just minor inconveniences and minute tasks that someone in his standing shouldn't have to be bothered with. It has nothing to do with weakness, or showing any signs of it. Rick isn't weak. No part of Rick can ever be truly weak again.  
And maybe he'd keep thinking about it like he always does, think about what that means for him and what that means for Morty, but as the knocks get louder his patience increasingly thins, and finally he's forced to get up and see what asshole thinks that their shitty little issues are more important than a man's right to some peace and quiet.  
But when he opens the door, it all seems to come together.  
Because standing on the stoop in front of the door, looking strung out and annoyed and so god damn arrogant, is not a debt collector or a visitor or even Morty. The face is less familiar, but it's one Rick remembers all the same.  
"Well, aren't I a lucky fucking dog? I come here to find one little psycho and instead I get the big one who taught him so well."  
Rick gives Dylan an obvious once-over, eyes cold and disinterested. He's a little more muscly in the arms than he originally thought, and sure, his face looks kind of nice if you catch him from the right angle. But he's nothing impressive. And the only thing worse than an entirely unimpressive person is one who does shitty things to cover up for it.  
"Yeah," Rick says with a nod, yanking Dylan into the foyer as the door shuts behind him. "This'll do just fine."  
☆  
"M-Maybe this is going to seem a-a-a little bizarre to you," Rick says as Dylan comes to, the back of his head throbbing something awful. "A-And it is, y'know…bizarre. It's crazy. In fact I sh--I-I probably shouldn't even be thinking ab-about doing anything remotely close to-to this because if Morty finds out, he'll kill me."  
"I should have killed you," Dylan spits.  
"Yeah," Rick chuckles vehemently, the corners of his eyes creasing in a way that really makes Dylan's blood boil. "I guess y-you should have."  
Both refuse to speak of the obvious, more alarming matters at hand, like the fact that Dylan is tied to some sort of overwhelmingly heavy chair, or that beside him sits one of those metal trays that you typically see in dentist's offices, decorated with several neat rows of varying syringes and tools. Talking about it makes it real and, quite honestly, neither of them are ready to truly accept what's happening right now.  
Driven by alcohol and anger and sadness and all of those other terrible, painful emotions that Rick typically tends to avoid, he's put himself in a position to do what his conscious believes to be the right thing. But he's not stupid. He knows that he's reached a point where his idea of right and wrong are obscured beyond what even he can decipher.  
"So what do you want?" Dylan demands.  
"Not quite sure," Rick grunts, swilling around the alcohol in his flask. "The truth? Revenge? There's a-a lot of things I can think of."  
"Revenge?" Dylan laughs. "For what, introducing some suicidal kid to something that was already readily available to him at home? You were the one that fucked him up. I just helped him stop thinking about it."  
"Is-Is that what you think?" Rick asks curtly, hand balling into a fist at his side. "That you helped him? That-That getting him addicted t-to drugs really bettered his situation?"  
"It helped him get away."  
"And maybe that's all-all fine and good f-for you," Rick agrees. "But now I-I can't get him back." He pauses for a moment, seems to stare longingly into the walls like maybe the answers to all of his problems are hidden there. "I can't get him back because he loves heroin more th-than he loves me or-or his family or anything else. A-And for that, I have you to blame."  
"You're really underselling yourself here, huh?" Dylan scoffs. "He wouldn't have needed to escape from anything if you hadn't stranded him here like some box of abandoned puppies."  
"That's not the point--"  
"Then what _is_  the point?" Dylan challenges. "Because it must be pretty god damn good to have me strapped up to this chair like some fucking Hannibal Lecter wannabe."  
"The point is-is that I have to make things better now. And you…well, y-you can't be a part of that equation."  
"So let me go!" Dylan insists, wrists chafing against the binding when he struggles to move even an inch toward his captor. "I swear I won't come around here ever again. I don't even _care_  about Morty anymore."  
It's a convincing argument for someone as slimy as Dylan, the idea that people move in and out of his life freely and without feeling, but Rick isn't buying it. "If you don't care th-then why did you show--why did you come here?"  
"I--" Dylan pauses, has to think about what he's going to say carefully and with composure. The entire situation feels like trying to run through a minefield at top speed. One misstep and he's done for. "Okay, I did come here to check on him. But that's only because I was worried."  
"Worried about what?" Rick muses, picking up a syringe to examine it carefully in the overhead light. "The last time y-you saw each other he-he stabbed you."  
Shit. So much for hoping that Morty would have kept his mouth shut. He always did say that his grandfather was his weak spot, that with just the right amount of coaxing, he could get Morty to tell him anything he wanted to know, good or bad...the stupid, manipulative bastard.  
"I just hadn't seen him around, so--"  
"Can-Can we ju-just cut the shit?" Rick sighs drunkenly, letting the syringe fall loudly back onto the tray. "Listening to-to you lie is getting kind o-of boring."  
Dylan sneers. "You don't know anything."  
"No? I-I know that your name is Dylan Gutiérrez. I know that you-you're nineteen years old, that you hop from place t-to place because your parents are abusive alcoholics who sleep on mattresses in crackhouses, and that you have a very sick little sister in-in the foster care system."  
"Don't you dare bring her into this," Dylan snarls, body tensing as if preparing for attack.  
"I also know how-how to replace all of her medications with chemicals that will eat her body from the--from the inside out without a-a single person finding out it was me. In the same breath, I can create something that will cure her," Rick continues.  
"You sick son of a bitch!"  
"It's the-the ultimate sacrifice, isn't it?" Rick smirks. "You already know that-that telling me the truth will end badly for you, but in the process you give y-your sibling a chance at a better life. Of course, if you don't tell me the truth then the outcome for both of you looks pretty grim. But hey, at least your parents will only have t-to worry about funding their drug addiction instead of supporting a worthless pill pusher like you."  
"I'll fucking kill you!" Dylan screams, trying relentlessly to break free and strangle the words out of the old man's throat.  
Rick crouches down to Dylan's height, his eyes somber and serious. "Just tell me the truth, Dylan. Tell me you-you were there that night. Tell me you left him there dying on that floor like the worthless fucking coward you are."  
"Fuck you," Dylan spits.  
"Just tell me!" Rick shouts, fist landing mere centimeters from Dylan's odd, angular face. "Tell me you were there."  
"I'm not scared of you."  
"Fine then," Rick agrees, reaching dangerously close into Dylan's personal space to retrieve a loaded needle from the tray. "Maybe I'll just have to-to make you afraid."  
"What is that?" Dylan asks worriedly, shifting uncomfortably in his chair as Rick lines the bevel up with the side of his neck. He doesn't even have the common decency to check for air bubbles, the old prick.  
"This is a mixture of two corrosive chemicals th-that I like to call XYZ. Like the end of the alphabet, get it? Because as soon as it enters your system, y-you'll be begging for all of it to be over. This is-is the same concoction that I'll be injecting into your sister's IV bag if you don't tell me what I want to hear."  
"I--"  
"Don't call my bluff on this," Rick advises.  
"God damn it, fine!" Dylan cries, eyes shut tight against the memory of that night. "Just…promise me you'll do what you say you're going to do. Promise me you'll cure my sister."  
"I'm a-a-a vengeful man of my word, but a man of-of my word just the same. I-If you tell me the truth about that night then I'll save her," Rick promises.  
Dylan lets out a long, shaky breath, his mind refusing to wrap itself around any ideas of what's about to happen next. All he knows is that this is definitely not going to end well for him. But what can he do besides comply?  
"I was there," he admits. "Morty called me and asked if I could score for him. I told him to fuck off at first, but there was just something about the way his voice sounded…like he was gonna lose it completely. And I wanted to help him. But then he took it and…I don't know. Everything seemed fine for a couple of minutes, but then he just stopped moving, and he got this far off look in his eyes, and all I remember is someone saying 'he's dying, he's dying' and I just…shut down, I guess. I was afraid if I stayed and he died that I'd get charged with his death and I…I didn't want his blood on my hands. And I didn't think, and I wish it had gone differently, or that maybe I could have helped somehow, but…"  
"You didn't."  
"No," Dylan murmurs. "I didn't."  
Rick straightens up a little, leans back to get a good look at this boy who knows Morty so intimately, who has shared so many memories with him in lieu of Rick's absence, who's experienced so many firsts with his grandson that Rick will never get to take for himself. And all he can ask is, "Did the truth set you free?"  
Dylan bites his lip, flexes his aching fingers and stares back at Rick with the same frigid, hardened glare that he's held since Rick first opened the door. Free? Dylan will never be free.  
"No," he confesses.  
"Then maybe this will help," Rick says moments before plunging the needle directly into Dylan's jugular.  
The screams die much earlier than he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first and foremost I'd like to apologize for the hella long hiatus I went on without much warning. Adulting is taking a lot out of me lately and the pressure to finish off this story in a way that doesn't seem half-baked is incredibly hard. I hope everyone can understand and forgive me. This story is still my prime project and I have every intent of carrying it out until the end. I hope the extra long chapter this time around makes up for it a little. ♡  
> Anyways, I've missed you guys and I'm glad to be getting back into the swing of things! It feels so good to write, especially with all the stress that comes with moving and settling in an entirely new state. I'd like to give a huge shout out to everyone who's offered words of encouragement and stuck with me throughout this process. It means more to me than you guys know.  
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! As always I love to hear your feedback and I appreciate all the lovely things you guys have to say about this story. It's really uplifting to see people who are dedicated to my work.   
> I hope to talk to you all very soon! Auf Wiedersehen for now. ☆


	19. Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A month passes. Rick decides that it's time to pay Morty a visit.

From the moment Morty opens his eyes he can tell that he's not really awake. Everything has that shimmery sort of glow to it around the edges, like at any minute the walls themselves might dissolve and cease to exist entirely. Considering his less than savory escapades in the past, it's not exactly a feeling that puts him at ease. Waking up in a dream world could mean any number of sticky situations that he's not entirely sure he could get himself out of on his own. He may have learned a lot in these past couple of months, but there's no inheriting intelligence from experience alone.  
Luckily it's not something he has to worry about. Because, just seconds later, Rick appears in front of him, looking tired and worried and all of the things that Rick never usually looks. Morty lets out a deep breath.  
"One month is a-a long time to go without even a phone call, don't you think?" He jests, hoping to lighten the mood. He's not really sure what he _should_ be saying in a situation like this. There are so many things between them that have gone unspoken.  
"Yeah, Morty. I know. I'm sorry."  
"You're not like…in my room dream incepting me right now, are you? Because they do room checks every fifteen minutes."  
"Same premise, different concept. I had to fiddle with the details a little for long distance use," Rick shrugs.  
"…Right. So why are you here?"  
Rick cracks his knuckles, stretches his arms, shuffles his feet on the carpeted floor, but the one thing he won't do is look Morty in the eye. "Just checking in?"  
"Oh come on, Rick, cut the shit. Why can't you just say it?"  
"Because it'll only ruin things for you."  
"Is that why you've been keeping your distance? Because you think it'll ruin things for me?" Morty demands. "W-Why do you keep thinking that's it up to you to decide what's best for me?"  
"Do you really think that I'm what's best for you?" Rick scoffs. "If you were smart like everyone else you'd stay as far away from me as possible."  
"If you'd only let me," Morty chuckles in disbelief, hanging his head in his hands. "It seems like no matter what I do or where I go, y-you're always right there beside me…even when you're not."  
Rick smirks a little, but it doesn't quite meet his eyes. Something is definitely off. "Can't get me out of your head, huh?"  
"Be serious."  
"What should I say, Morty? Wh-What should I do? I don't know up from down anymore. I-I-I don't know how to feel or what to feel or if I should even be feeling anything at all," Rick sighs. "All I know is that I-I'm scared shitless of losing you again and I don't know how to deal with that. Is that what you want to hear?"  
"Yeah," Morty says, his chest feeling tight with emotions that he can't quite process. "It is."  
"Even though I'm not enough for you?"  
"I can't find my entire world inside the body of one man, Rick. Life just isn't that cut and dry."  
"I know that, but--"  
"Rick," Morty interrupts. The expression on his face is as serious as anyone's ever seen it. "E-Even if it's stupid, and unhealthy, and it doesn't make any sense, y-you and I are in this together. Despite what anyone says, there are just some things that can't be erased no matter how hard you try."  
Rick narrows his eyes down at the floor. "Sounds like a disease."  
"If it means that you won't leave me again, then it's a disease that I-I'll gladly accept...but...there are some things I need you to understand."  
"Oh Jesus, here we go."  
"What's your problem?" Morty nearly shouts. "The way things are going now clearly isn't working f-for either of us. So why are you so-so god damn unwilling to change? Is it really that hard for you to-to-to be a decent human being for once?"  
"Yeah, Morty, it is! Because I'm not like you. The only thing I don't know how to do is change."  
"Why won't you try for me, f-for us? Do you want us to become the same cold, heartless person for the rest of our-our miserable lives? Because I can't do it anymore, Rick! If I walk around every day around truly believing that nothing matters, then I'll lose sight of the one thing that keeps me from becoming a monster...being _human_." Morty is crying full force now, tears stinging his eyes like angry waterfalls that refuse to cease. He feels like such an idiot.  
Rick is biting his lip. That's never a good sign. "Morty…"  
"All I want is for-for someone--for _you_  to prove that y-you really love me. Just tell me that all of-of this wasn't for nothing."  
"That's not fair--"  
"None of this is fucking fair!" Morty stresses, cheeks streaked with wet trails that make Rick's heart twist tight in his chest. "Not the abandonment, or the drugs, or the fighting, or the fucking. Not-Not a single thing that you a-and I have done is-is fair to us or anyone fucking else. So why can't we just-just make it mean something for once?"  
"Because--"  
"Because you're _weak_ , Rick. You're so weak that you're-you're never going to give me the satisfaction of getting what I want…because then you'll actually have to be accountable for something and that scares you. Well, I'm tired of fighting what's in my nature. The fact of the matter is that I-I'm going to get upset, and overwhelmed, and angry. I'm going to have moments in my life where things become too much for me to handle. And I need you to accept that. I need you to tell me that we're in this together no matter what."  
Rick hates being put in positions where he has to swallow his pride. Perhaps he's always known that it was going to come to this, to giving his last shred of dignity over to Morty if only to keep him around for as long as he's willing to stay. Perhaps this was always the way things were meant to be.  
And yet, there are still no guarantees in this scenario, no definite answers to put him at ease…just gambles and hopes and a lot of promises hanging in the air, so thick that Rick feels like he's going to choke on them if they come out.  
But here he is anyways, even though he could have left a hundred times, even though he could have pretended that he never knew Morty at all, even though he could have left this entire life behind and started over in a hundred different places. Here he is, and he's going to say it, going to give Morty whatever he wants because he's lonely and afraid and so, so tired of denying himself the one thing that he knows he can no longer live without.  
"Okay, Morty," he says, and fuck, he feels like he's going to cry, but he can't; he can't let Morty know just how much all of this breaks him inside, just how much he wants to run away and hide and never force himself to change, not for himself and certainly not for another single god damn soul in this universe. "I promise that I'm going to try. I promise that I-I'll make this all count for something."  
"Then tell me, Rick. Tell me the truth."  
Rick squeezes his eyes shut tight and revels in the darkness. Pride cometh before the fall, he guesses.  
"I…I need you, Morty. I need you more tha-than anyone else I've ever known."  
Morty wipes gently at his eyes and then gives a sad little smile, like he's too afraid to believe what he's hearing is the truth. "Do you know how long I've been waiting to hear that?" He asks.  
"Probably much too long," Rick sighs.  
"Much too long," Morty agrees.  
And then they stand there for a moment and just revel in this feeling, the feeling that everything that was once broken has been made slightly whole again, like they've haphazardly thrown some patches over the more pressing problems just to become content with what they know as reality. And it's fine. They're fine. For once in their lives together, things don't feel like they're going to fall back into shambles as soon as they take the first step forward.  
"Did you miss me?"  
"O-Of course I missed you, idiot," Rick grumbles, arms crossed tightly over his chest.  
"Oh yeah? So what'd you do while I was gone?"  
Rick has just given Morty his dignity. He's not about to hand him the truth that could shatter that in the very same moment. Not now. Not ever, maybe. They've both come too god damn far to fight over one more death.  
"The usual."  
Morty snorts. "So…what? Drank? Tinkered around with some shit? Went on an adventure? Fucked some grotesque aliens?" He guesses.  
"I'm too tired to fuck grotesque aliens," Rick shrugs.  
"More like too old."  
Rick will give him that one. "And what about you? How-How's the glamorous rehab life treating you?"  
"Oh jeez well, y'know, between the methadone treatments and-and the round the clock therapy, it's all just been one big blur," Morty says sarcastically. The truth is that he'd really love nothing more than to come home and sleep for a couple of days without anyone bothering him, Rick included, but he's not really doing this for him. It's too late to show any signs of weakness.  
"You're doing more than I ever could," Rick admits.  
"It's not exactly hard to see why you didn't."  
"Do you want to quit?"  
Yes, yes, yes, a million times yes. More than he wants to smile, or laugh, or live some kind of semblance of a normal life. More than anything.  
"No," he says.  
"You're lying."  
"Well, what difference does it really make?" He asks. "I'm not going to stop now. I…I can't."  
Rick scratches the back of his neck idly, looking like he wants to say something that he knows he probably shouldn't. "I'm proud of you, y'know," he mumbles. "If that counts for anything."  
Morty pulls Rick in suddenly and crushes his face into his chest, the wet trails of his tears soaking into the material of Rick's sweater. "Yeah," he sniffles. "Yeah, it does."  
Rick runs his fingers through Morty's mess of curls, longer than when he last saw him, like they've been growing along with all of his progress. It suits him somehow.  
"Rick?" Morty asks, lifting his head just enough for Rick to catch the desperate look in his eyes.  
"Yeah, Morty?"  
"Does it count if it's in a dream?"  
"Does what--"  
But Rick doesn't have time to finish his question as he's shoved to the ground, feeling like he's floating on a bed of air. It's not long until he gets his answer anyways. Morty starts kissing him like it's the very first time, his mouth anguished and needy.  
"Morty…"  
"It's okay, isn't it?" He whispers, tiny hands gripping Rick's shoulders. "I-Is it still okay for us to do this?"  
Rick takes a deep breath. "I…I don't know."  
"If you want to stop just say so."  
"That's not fair."  
Morty's mouth screws up with confusion. "Why?"  
"Because you know I won't."  
That's really all Morty needs, he guesses. And to be honest, Rick has been needing this, needing to feel Morty's skin against his own and the tingling in his veins that means that he's alive and that his grandson, in one way or another, is by his side. It's security in a world where security is often lacking.  
Morty's tongue slides deftly across his own, frantic and wet and everything that is always both right and wrong in the universe. This dream is as close to heaven as either of them are going to get in their tiny sliver of hell in the multiverse. And that's okay. Right now, that's enough.  
Rick slips his hand underneath the band of Morty's underwear and gives his ass a hard squeeze, savoring the way the flesh feels so soft and taut and real, as if they were both right there, really breathing each other's air and enjoying each other's bodies. Rick is one damn good scientist and he knows it.  
"I've missed you," Morty gasps between kisses, craning his neck in response to the assault of Rick's teeth.  
"Yeah?" Rick asks, grabbing tight at Morty's ribcage, his hips, his thighs, anywhere his fingers have purchase, really. When will he get this chance again? When is the next time that this will happen, if at all? What if Morty decides that he no longer needs Rick like this, starving for him and desperate to force all of the unspoken words between them out through their desire? These are the questions that drive Rick's urgency.  
"Yeah," Morty hums, rutting mindlessly into Rick's leg for some sort of relief. If this is the closest thing that he'll ever get to using again, damned if he isn't going to make the best of it.  
"You-You ever beat off in here thinking ab-about me?" Rick asks smugly, lips twitching into that smirk that drives Morty crazy in ways that have him questioning his own sanity...not that he hasn't been doing enough of that lately.  
"Do you e-ever beat off thinking about _me_?" Morty asks, eyebrow raised inquisitively.  
Rick chuckles, tugs carefully at the waist of Morty's jeans. "You really wanna know the answer?"  
"I think I do."  
"More than I'd care to admit."  
"You just admitted it," Morty whispers, licking a slow trail up the shell of Rick's ear.  
Rick pulls him up closer so that their groins are pressed together with the slightest sense of friction, just enough to make Morty whine hotly into the space next to his grandfather's neck.  
And still there's too much space between them, too many feelings of emptiness that keep dragging them away from this moment. There has to be more than this. There has to be something else that will make them forget it all.  
"Take off my clothes," Morty demands desperately, writhing needily against his counterpart from emotions that feel like weights in his chest. All of this talk about recovery and he's still using like a reckless junkie.  
Rick complies without question, rough, calloused hands sliding up Morty's pale sides with fervor when he lifts his shirt over his head. Morty's skin feels like it's been set ablaze.  
"We're so fucked up," he chuckles, wrapping his scrawny arms around Rick's shoulders.  
"Speak for yourself, Morty, I'm as straight-laced as they come."  
"I forgot," Morty sighs, hands cupping Rick's sharp cheekbones. "I'm dealing with the-the perfect and godlike Rick Sanchez."  
"The one and only," Rick smiles, planting a dirty kiss on Morty's lips, his skin. Morty's body feels like fireworks.  
And besides this, what is there? Family? Friends? Drugs? They pale in comparison. The most powerful man in the universe is grabbing Morty's ass, his thighs, easing a finger so easily inside of him to make him feel like he's the only person that matters to this being to whom no one matters. How could Morty ever feel more special, more complete than this?  
"Rick," Morty gasps, fingers digging into the old man's shoulder blades. "I need more."  
Morty always needs more. Without the ability to be whole, all Morty wants to feel is everything that he so often lacks...even if that means that he has to feel it all at once.  
"We'll get there," Rick chastises, teeth sinking into the flesh of Morty's neck, leaving marks that won't be there when Morty wakes up in a reality that Rick has nothing to do with.  
"Promise?"  
"I promise," Rick whispers low, and the way his voice sounds makes Morty's stomach feel all tight and nervous. Morty is the only person that Rick will ever make a promise to. That has to mean something, right?  
Time seems to rush by in these moments, like the very concept of seconds and minutes slip through their fingers and fade into a world of gray. Morty is scratching Rick to hell, heels pushing deep into the pillowy floor as he comes apart before things have really even started. Rick is taking off his pants, erection pressed tight into Morty's skinny thigh, tongue traveling to all sorts of places that it shouldn't. And from there it's an unspoken agreement, two bodies moving without permission from the minds that occupy them, like addictions seeking each other out to create something both terrible and delightful.  
And it isn't until they're both right there, teetering on the edge of doing the very thing that they know that have no right to do, that Morty says it, so gripped with euphoria and happiness and confusion and hatred for himself and his counterpart.  
"I love you," he admits, tears leaking down his reddened face, and if he's being honest, he's not even really sure why. What else does he have to lose? He's already given everything to Rick: his heart, his head, his body. Why shed tears over the things that he's never going to get back? Morty will never stop loving Rick now. He can't.  
"Yeah, Morty," Rick says, positioning himself so delicately between his grandson's legs. "I love you too...y-you little shit."  
And isn't that all that Morty has ever wanted right there? Isn't this the epitome that his entire life has been leading up to, those three words spoken so honestly from this terrible, mean asshole that he's cared for for what feels like a millennia?  
Morty feels delirious with his feelings when Rick pushes himself inside, wants to crawl out of his own skin and shake himself until he gets it under control, but instead he settles for holding Rick tight, refusing to let go even though it hurts and he's tired and all he kind of wants to do besides this is sleep. Sometimes it feels like Rick is the only thing keeping him grounded to reality.  
But it's a reality that Morty is deciding to live in. And for both of them, although it leaves a big question mark hanging in the air about their future, even though it doesn't make any sense to someone looking from the outside in, it means that they're going to stick together, for as long as they can, perhaps even for as long as they can't. Rick and Morty forever and ever a hundred years.  
Hadn't that always been the plan from the start?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, am I ever sorry that this took so fucking long, but my life has been a very confusing mess for the past couple of months and honestly once this got to the smut portion I literally just had no drive to write it. So aside from me being a crap bag with no motivation, I'M SORRY THAT I DIDN'T WRITE FOR THIS LONG. You guys rock and you definitely deserve better. Thanks to everyone for being so patient for this to come out. It means more to me than you know.  
> So anyways, how was this? I was in a rut for awhile and when I was writing it was much darker than this. It's hard coming to the end of the story, there's a lot of pressure for me to do really good, so I think once I put that aside it was a little easier to just get it out there. So I really hope it's good, and I really hope that it was sort of worth the wait.  
> Sadly, there will only be one more chapter after this, a nice and neat little wrap up for you all to enjoy as a well deserved reward for putting up with my shit. That's pretty scary for me. I feel like I've been writing this my whole life and I've never actually finished a project this big before. Let's hope the next chapter goes a lot better than this one.  
> So anyways, I'm done babbling. Let me know what you thought, cause you all know I really appreciate it and could use the motivation. I hope it was up to par with the rest of the story. As always, thanks for reading!  
> Sincave out. ☆


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